One noon we were at lunch.  Occasionally before seating himself at his small central table he would walk or glance about and, having good eyes, would spy some little defect or delinquency somewhere and of course immediately act upon it.  One of the rules of the repair shop was that you were to eat what was put before you, especially when it differed from what your table companion received.  Thus a fat man at a table with a lean one might receive a small portion of lean meat, no potatoes and no bread or one little roll, whereas his lean acquaintance opposite would be receiving a large portion of fat meat, a baked or boiled potato, plenty of bread and butter, and possibly a side dish of some kind.  Now it might well be, as indeed was often the case, that each would be dissatisfied with his apportionment and would attempt to change plates.

But this was the one thing that Culhane would not endure.  So upon one occasion, passing near the table at which sat myself and the above-mentioned doctor, table-mates for the time being, he noticed that he was not eating his carrots, a dish which had been especially prepared for him, I imagine—­for if one unconsciously ignored certain things the first day or two of his stay, those very things would be all but rammed down his throat during the remainder of his stay; a thing concerning which one guest and another occasionally cautioned newcomers.  However this may have been in this particular case, he noticed the uneaten carrots and, pausing a moment, observed: 

“What’s the matter?  Aren’t you eating your carrots?” We had almost finished eating.

“Who, me?” replied the medic, looking up.  “Oh, no, I never eat carrots, you know.  I don’t like them.”

“Oh, don’t you?” said Culhane sweetly.  “You don’t like them, and so you don’t eat them!  Well, suppose you eat them here.  They may do you a little good just as a change.”

“But I never eat carrots,” retorted the medic tersely and with a slight show of resentment or opposition, scenting perhaps a new order.

“No, not outside perhaps, but here you do.  You eat carrots here, see?”

“Yes, but why should I eat them if I don’t like them?  They don’t agree with me.  Must I eat something that doesn’t agree with me just because it’s a rule or to please you?”

“To please me, or the carrots, or any damned thing you please—­but eat ’em.”

The doctor subsided.  For a day or two he went about commenting on what a farce the whole thing was, how ridiculous to make any one eat what was not suited to him, but just the same while he was there he ate them.

As for myself, I was very fond of large boiled potatoes and substantial orders of fat and lean meat, and in consequence, having been so foolish as to show this preference, I received but the weakest, most contemptible and puling little spuds and pale orders of meat—­with, it is true, plenty of other “side dishes”; whereas a later table-mate of mine, a distressed and neurasthenic society man, was receiving—­I soon learned he especially abhorred them—­potatoes as big as my two fists.