Along a long, dark, narrow hallway they went and then through a shining and spotless kitchen that opened directly upon a back yard.

The walls of houses hemmed three sides of the yard; a high, board fence, surrounded by cats, the other.  A wash of clothes was suspended high upon a line stretched from diagonal corners.  Those were property clothes, and were never taken in by ’Tonio.  They were there that wits with defective pronunciation might make puns in connection with the ragout.

A dozen and a half little tables set upon the bare ground were crowded with Bohemia-hunters, who flocked there because ’Tonio pretended not to want them and pretended to give them a good dinner.  There was a sprinkling of real Bohemians present who came for a change because they were tired of the real Bohemia, and a smart shower of the men who originate the bright sayings of Congressmen and the little nephew of the well-known general passenger agent of the Evansville and Terre Haute Railroad Company.

Here is a bon mot that was manufactured at ’Tonio’s: 

“A dinner at ’Tonio’s,” said a Bohemian, “always amounts to twice the price that is asked for it.”

Let us assume that an accommodating voice inquires: 

“How so?”

“The dinner costs you 40 cents; you give 10 cents to the waiter, and it makes you feel like 30 cents.”

Most of the diners were confirmed table d’hoters—­gastronomic adventurers, forever seeking the El Dorado of a good claret, and consistently coming to grief in California.

Mr. Brunelli escorted Katy to a little table embowered with shrubbery in tubs, and asked her to excuse him for a while.

Katy sat, enchanted by a scene so brilliant to her.  The grand ladies, in splendid dresses and plumes and sparkling rings; the fine gentlemen who laughed so loudly, the cries of “Garsong!” and “We, monseer,” and “Hello, Mame!” that distinguish Bohemia; the lively chatter, the cigarette smoke, the interchange of bright smiles and eye-glances—­all this display and magnificence overpowered the daughter of Mrs. Dempsey and held her motionless.

Mr. Brunelli stepped into the yard and seemed to spread his smile and bow over the entire company.  And everywhere there was a great clapping of hands and a few cries of “Bravo!” and “’Tonio!  ’Tonio!” whatever those words might mean.  Ladies waved their napkins at him, gentlemen almost twisted their necks off, trying to catch his nod.

When the ovation was concluded Mr. Brunelli, with a final bow, stepped nimbly into the kitchen and flung off his coat and waistcoat.

Flaherty, the nimblest “garsong” among the waiters, had been assigned to the special service of Katy.  She was a little faint from hunger, for the Irish stew on the Dempsey table had been particularly weak that day.  Delicious odors from unknown dishes tantalized her.  And Flaherty began to bring to her table course after course of ambrosial food that the gods might have pronounced excellent.