Under each umbrella were two waiters, one carrying the umbrella and the
other a portion of my breakfast. The potentate under the first umbrella,
who carried the wine, proved to be a waiter-in-chief; the others
bearing the filet, plates, dishes, and glasses were ordinary
"omnibuses," pressed into service as palanquin-bearers by reason of
the storm.
The waiter-in-chief, with the bottle, dodged from under his bungalow,
leaving it outside and still open, like a stranded circus-tent, stepped
into my kiosk, mopped the rain from his coat-sleeves and hands with a
napkin, and, bowing solemnly, pointed to the label on the bottle. This
meeting my approval, he relieved the rear-guard of the dishes, arranged
the table, drew the cork of the St. Julien, filled my glass, dismissed
the assistants and took his place behind my chair.
The closeness of the quarters, the protection it afforded from the
raging elements, the perils my companion had gone through to serve me,
made possible a common level on which we could stand.
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