Ford was in high spirits, and seemed all one chuckle of self-confidence.  It was indeed a remarkably elegant establishment in its line, into which he led them a few minutes later.

There certainly was nothing like it on Long Island, whatever might be true of Paris and other places outside of the “known world.”

Dab Kinzer felt like walking very straight as he followed his “leader,” and Dick Lee had to use all the strength he had to keep himself from taking his hat right off when he went in.

There was any amount of glitter and shine, in all directions; and Dab had a confused idea that he had never before believed that the world contained so many tables.  Ford seemed wonderfully at home and at ease; and Dick found voice enough to say, half aloud,—­

“Ain’t I glad he’s got de rudder, dis time?  Cap’n Dab couldn’t steer t’rough dis yer.”

The “steering” was well done; and it brought them nearly to the farther end of the great, splendid room, and seated them at a round table that seemed as well furnished as even Mrs. Foster’s own.  They all imitated Ford in hanging their hats on the appointed pegs before sitting down.

“Now, boys, what shall we have?” he said, as he gazed learnedly up and down the printed bill of fare.  “Speak up, Joe, Fuz, what’s your weakness?”

Every boy of them was willing to let Ford do his best with that part of the dinner; and he was hard at work deciding what soup and fish he had better pick out, when the tall waiter who had bustled forward to receive the coming “order,” bent over his shoulder, and pointed to Dick Lee, inquiring,—­

“Beg pardon, sah!  Is dis young colored gen’l-man of youah party?  It’s ’gainst de rules ob de establishment, sah.”

Dab Kinzer felt his face flush fiery red; and he was on the point of saying something, he hardly knew what, when Ford looked calmly up into the mahogany face of the mulatto waiter, with,—­

“You refer to my friend from Africa?  We’ll talk about that after dinner.  Gumbo soup and Spanish mackerel if you please.  Sharp, now!”

“But, sah”—­

“Don’t be afflicted, my friend.  He’s as white as anybody, except on Fridays:  this is his black day.  Hurry up the soup and fish.”

Joe and Fuz were looking as if they were dreadfully ashamed of something; but poor Dick was sitting up as straight as a ramrod, under the influence of a glance that he had taken at the face of Dab Kinzer.

“I isn’t goin’ back on him and Ford,” he said to himself.  “I’d foller dem fellers right fru’ dis yer eatin’-house.”

Frank Harley seemed to be getting some information.  In the country he had lived in nearly all his life, “colored people” were as good as anybody if they were of the right sort; and a man’s skin had little to do with the degree of respect paid him, although even there it was an excellent thing to be “white.”

As for the mulatto waiter, after a moment more of hesitation, he took Ford’s order, and walked dignifiedly away, muttering,—­