“Then I began by thanking them and ended by saying I couldn’t.  Then the Small Man began to urge me, saying that out in his country, near the Rockies, everybody was willing to sit down at anybody’s table when he was invited; and the Large Man kept on squeezing my arm in a friendly sort of way, so I finally said I didn’t care if I did, and in we all went.  When we got inside the place was practically empty—­only one guest, really—­and he was over by the wall in a corner.  There were only two waiters —­one an Irishman who said his name was Mike, with a very red head and an enormous mouth—­a queer kind of a servant for that kind of a restaurant, I thought—­and the other a young Italian, who was probably the cook.

“‘You order,’ said the Large Man.  ’You know what’s good in New York.’

“So I ordered.

“And I want to tell you that the dinner was a particularly good one—­well cooked and well served.  We had soup and fish and an Italian ragout, macaroni, peppers and two bottles of red wine.  Before the soup was over I was glad I’d come; glad, not only because the dinner was all right, but because the people were human kind of people—­no foolishness about them—­no pretension.  They were not our kind of people, of course—­couldn’t find them in New York if you looked everywhere—­not born and brought up here.  The Woman was gentle and kindly, saying very little, but the Large Man was a hearty, breezy sort of fellow—­even if his language at times was rough and uncouth—­at least I thought so.  Big bones and a well-fed body; quick in his movements, yet slow in his talk, showing force and determination in everything he said.  The Small Man was as tough physically and as alert mentally, but there wasn’t so much of him.  He talked, however, twice as fast as the Large Man, and said less.

“He talked of the city—­how smart the people were, how stuck up some of them, thinking they knew it all, and how, if they but thought about it, they must see after all that the West was the only thing that kept the country alive.  That kind of talk—­not in an offensive way—­just as all of us talk when we believe in our section of the country.

“All this time the solitary guest sat against the wall listening.  Near as I could make out he only had one dish and a small bottle of wine.  Presently he made a remark—­not to us—­not to the room—­more as if to himself.

“’West is the only thing, is it?  And every man Jack of them from New England stock!’

“This, too, didn’t come in any offensive spirit—­ just as an aside, as if to keep himself company, being lonely, of course.

“But the Large Man caught it before all the words were out of his mouth.

“‘Dead right, pard,’ he said—­I only quote his words, gentlemen.  ’My father came from Boston. left there in ‘58.  Where’re you from?’

“‘Boston,’ answered the man looking at him over the prongs of his fork.

“‘That so?  Well, why ain’t you eatin’ your turkey with your folks?  Got any?’