In an art exhibition the other day I saw a painting thathad been sold for 5，000. The painter was a young scrubout of the West named Kraft， who had a favourite foodand a pet theory. His pabulum was an unquenchable beliefin the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature. His theorywas fixed around corned-beef hash with poached egg.
There was a story behind the picture， so I went home andlet it drip out of a fountain-pen. The idea of Kraft—butthat is not the beginning of the story.
Three years ago Kraft， Bill Judkins （a poet）， and I tookour meals at Cypher’s， on Eighth Avenue. I say “took.”
When we had money， Cypher got it “off of ” us， as heexpressed it. We had no credit； we went in， called for foodand ate it. We paid or we did not pay. We had confidencein Cypher’s sullenness and smouldering ferocity. Deepdown in his sunless soul he was either a prince， a fool or anartist. He sat at a worm-eaten desk， covered with files ofwaiters’ checks so old that I was sure the bottomest onewas for clams that Hendrik Hudson had eaten and paidfor. Cypher had the power， in common with NapoleonIII. and the goggle-eyed perch， of throwing a film overhis eyes， rendering opaque the windows of his soul. Oncewhen we left him unpaid， with egregious excuses， I lookedback and saw him shaking with inaudible laughter behindhis film. Now and then we paid up back scores.
But the chief thing at Cypher’s was Milly. Milly was awaitress. She was a grand example of Kraft’s theory ofthe artistic adjustment of nature. She belonged， largely，to waiting， as Minerva did to the art of scrapping， orVenus to the science of serious flirtation. Pedestalled andin bronze she might have stood with the noblest of herheroic sisters as “Liver-and-Bacon Enlivening the World.”
She belonged to Cypher’s. You expected to see her colossalfigure loom through that reeking blue cloud of smokefrom frying fat just as you expect the Palisades to appearthrough a drifting Hudson River fog. There amid thesteam of vegetables and the vapours of acres of “ham and，”
the crash of crockery， the clatter of steel， the screamingof “short orders，” the cries of the hungering and all thehorrid tumult of feeding man， surrounded by swarms ofthe buzzing winged beasts bequeathed us by Pharaoh，Milly steered her magnificent way like some great linercleaving among the canoes of howling savages.
Our Goddess of Grub was built on lines so majestic thatthey could be followed only with awe. Her sleeves werealways rolled above her elbows. She could have taken usthree musketeers in her two hands and dropped us outof the window. She had seen fewer years than any of us，but she was of such superb Evehood and simplicity thatshe mothered us from the beginning. Cypher’s store ofeatables she poured out upon us with royal indifferenceto price and quantity， as from a cornucopia that knew noexhaustion. Her voice rang like a great silver bell； her smilewas many-toothed and frequent； she seemed like a yellowsunrise on mountain tops. I never saw her but I thoughtof the Yosemite. And yet， somehow， I could never thinkof her as existing outside of Cypher’s. There nature hadplaced her， and she had taken root and grown mightily. Sheseemed happy， and took her few poor dollars on Saturdaynights with the flushed pleasure of a child that receives anunexpected donation.
It was Kraft who first voiced the fear that each of usmust have held latently. It came up apropos， of course，of certain questions of art at which we were hammering.
One of us compared the harmony existing between aHaydn symphony and pistache ice cream to the exquisitecongruity between Milly and Cypher’s.
“There is a certain fate hanging over Milly，” said Kraft，“and if it overtakes her she is lost to Cypher’s and to us.”
“She will grow fat？” asked Judkins， fearsomely.
“She will go to night school and become refined？” Iventured anxiously.
“It is this，” said Kraft， punctuating in a puddle of spilledcoffee with a stiff forefinger. “Caesar had his Brutus—the cotton has its bollworm， the chorus girl has herPittsburger， the summer boarder has his poison ivy， thehero has his Carnegie medal， art has its Morgan， the rosehas its—”
“Speak，” I interrupted， much perturbed. “You do notthink that Milly will begin to lace？”
“One day，” concluded Kraft， solemnly， “there will cometo Cypher’s for a plate of beans a millionaire lumbermanfrom Wisconsin， and he will marry Milly.”
“Never！” exclaimed Judkins and I， in horror.
“A lumberman，” repeated Kraft， hoarsely.
“And a millionaire lumberman！” I sighed， despairingly.
“From Wisconsin！” groaned Judkins.
We agreed that the awful fate seemed to menace her.
Few things were less improbable. Milly， like some vastvirgin stretch of pine woods， was made to catch thelumberman’s eye. And well we knew the habits of theBadgers， once fortune smiled upon them. Straight to NewYork they hie， and lay their goods at the feet of the girlwho serves them beans in a beanery. Why， the alphabetitself connives. The Sunday newspaper’s headliner’s workis cut for him.
“Winsome Waitress Wins Wealthy Wisconsin Woodsman.”
For a while we felt that Milly was on the verge of beinglost to us.
