By James Matthew Barrie
Frequently I have to ask myself in the street for the name ofthe man I bowed to just now， and then， before I can answer， thewind of the first corner blows him from my memory. I have atheory， however， that those puzzling faces， which pass before Ican see who cut the coat， all belong to club-waiters.
Until William forced his affairs upon me， that was all I didknow of the private life of waiters， though I have been in theclub for twenty years. I was even unaware whether they sleptdown-stairs or had their own homes， nor had I the interest toinquire of other members， nor they the knowledge to informme. I hold that this sort of people should be fed and clothedand given airing and wives and children， and I subscribeyearly， I believe， for these purposes； but to come into closerrelation with waiters is bad form； they are club fittings， andWilliam should have kept his distress to himself or taken itaway and patched it up， like a rent in one of the chairs. Hisinconsiderateness has been a pair of spectacles to me formonths.
It is not correct taste to know the name of a club-waiter， sothat I must apologize for knowing William’s and still more fornot forgetting it. If， again， to speak of a waiter is bad form，to speak bitterly is the comic degree of it. But William hasdisappointed me sorely. There were years when I would deferdining several minutes that he might wait on me. His pains toreserve the window-seat for me were perfectly satisfactory.
I allowed him privileges， as to suggest dishes， and wouldgive him information， as that someone had startled me in thereading-room by slamming a door. I have shown him how I cutmy finger with a piece of string. Obviously he was gratified bythese attentions， usually recommending a liqueur； and I fancyhe must have understood my sufferings， for he often lookedill himself. Probably he was rheumatic， but I cannot say forcertain， as I never thought of asking， and he had the sense tosee that the knowledge would be offensive to me.
In the smoking-room we have a waiter so independent thatonce， when he brought me a yellow Chartreuse， and I saidI had ordered green， he replied， “No， sir， you said yellow.”
William could never have been guilty of such effrontery.
In appearance， of course， he is mean， but I can no moredescribe him than a milkmaid could draw cows. I supposewe distinguish one waiter from another much as we pick ourhat from the rack. We could have plotted a murder safelybefore William. He never presumed to have opinions of hisown. When such was my mood he remained silent， and if Iannounced that something diverting had happened to me helaughed before I told him what it was. He turned the twinkle inhis eye off or on at my bidding as readily as if it was the gas.
To my “Sure to be wet to-morrow，” he would reply， “Yes， sir；”
and to Trelawney’s “It doesn’t look like rain，” two minutesafterward， he would reply， “No， sir.” It was one member whosaid Lightning Rod would win the Derby and another who saidLightning Rod had no chance， but it was William who agreedwith both. He was like a cheroot， which may be smokedfrom either end. So used was I to him that， had he died or gotanother situation （or whatever it is such persons do when theydisappear from the club）， I should probably have told the headwaiter to bring him back， as I disliked changes.
It would not become me to know precisely when I began tothink William an ingrate， but I date his lapse from the eveningwhen he brought me oysters. I detest oysters， and no one knewit better than William. He has agreed with me that he could notunderstand any gentleman’s liking them. Between me and acertain member who smacks his lips twelve times to a dozenof them， William knew I liked a screen to be placed until wehad reached the soup， and yet he gave me the oysters and theother man my sardine. Both the other member and I calledquickly for brandy and the head waiter. To do William justice，he shook， but never can I forget his audacious explanation，“Beg pardon， sir， but I was thinking of something else.”
In these words William had flung off the mask， and now Iknew him for what he was.
I must not be accused of bad form for looking at Williamon the following evening. What prompted me to do so wasnot personal interest in him， but a desire to see whether I darelet him wait on me again. So， recalling that a castor was off achair yesterday， one is entitled to make sure that it is on to-daybefore sitting down. If the expression is not too strong， I maysay that I was taken aback by William’s manner. Even whencrossing the room to take my orders he let his one hand playnervously with the other. I had to repeat “Sardine on toast”
twice， and instead of answering “Yes， sir，” as if my selectionof sardine on toast was a personal gratification to him， whichis the manner one expects of a waiter， he glanced at the clock，then out at the window， and， starting， asked， “Did you saysardine on toast， sir？”
It was the height of summer， when London smells like achemist’s shop， and he who has the dinner-table at the windowneeds no candles to show him his knife and fork. I lay back atintervals， now watching a starved-looking woman asleep on a doorstep，and again complaining of the club bananas. By and by， I sawa little girl of the commonest kind， ill-clad and dirty， as all thesearabs are. Their parents should be compelled to feed and clothethem comfortably， or at least to keep them indoors， where theycannot offend our eyes. Such children are for pushing aside withone’s umbrella； but this girl I noticed because she was gazing atthe club windows. She had stood thus for perhaps ten minutes，when I became aware that some one was leaning over me， tolook out at the window. I turned round. Conceive my indignationon seeing that the rude person was William.
“How dare you， William？” I said， sternly. He seemed not tohear me. Let me tell， in the measured words of one describinga past incident， what then took place. To get nearer thewindow， he pressed heavily on my shoulder.