THE INCONSIDERATE WAITER
BY J. M. BARRIE
Frequently I have to ask myself in the street for the name of the man I
bowed to just now, and then, before I can answer, the wind of the first
corner blows him from my memory. I have a theory, however, that those
puzzling faces, which pass before I can see who cut the coat, all belong to
club waiters.
Until William forced his affairs upon me that was all I did know of the
private life of waiters, though I have been in the club for twenty years. I
was even unaware whether they slept downstairs or had their own homes;
nor had I the interest to inquire of other members, nor they the knowledge
to inform me. I hold that this sort of people should be fed and clothed and
given airing and wives and children, and I subscribe yearly, I believe for
these purposes; but to come into closer relation with waiters is bad form;
they are club fittings, and William should have kept his distress to himself,
or taken it away and patched it up like a rent in one of the chairs. His
inconsiderateness has been a pair of spectacles to me for months.
It is not correct taste to know the name of a club waiter, so I must
apologise for knowing William\'s, and still more for not forgetting it. If,
again, to speak of a waiter is bad form, to speak bitterly is the comic
degree of it. But William has disappointed me sorely. There were years
when I would defer dining several minutes that he might wait on me. His
pains to reserve the window-seat for me were perfectly satisfactory. I
allowed him privileges, as to suggest dishes, and would give him
information, as that some one had startled me in the reading-room by
slamming a door. I have shown him how I cut my finger with a piece of
string. Obviously he was gratified by these attentions, usually
recommending a liqueur; and I fancy he must have understood my
sufferings, for he often looked ill himself. Probably he was rheumatic, but
I cannot say for certain, as I never thought of asking, and he had the sense
to see that the knowledge would be offensive to me.