IT WAS two days before Christmas, and Dove Dulcet had come down town to have lunch with me. As he had arrived rather early, we were taking a little stroll round the bright, windy streets before our meal, enjoying the colour and movement of the scene. We stopped by St. Paul's churchyard to note the curious contrast of the old chocolate spire relieved against the huge glittering shaft of the Woolworth Building. At the noon hour St. Paul's stands in the dark shadow of the great cliffs to the south, while the Woolworth pinnacle leaps up like a spearhead into the golden vacancy of day-long sunshine. “Saint Paul in the shadow, Saint Frank in the sun,” said Dove with gentle irony. “It seems to prove that ten cents put in the cash register gets nearer Heaven than ten cents dropped in the collection plate.”
When Dove is philosophical, he is always full of quaint matter, but I was hardly heeding what he said. My eye had been caught by a crowd gathered at the corner of Church Street. Over the heads of the throng was a winking spark of light that flashed this way and that as though spun from a turning mirror.
“Let's go and see what's doing,” I said. My poet friend is always docile, and he followed me down Fulton Street.
“It looks to me like a silk hat,” he said.
And so it was. On the corner of the pavement stood a tall, stout, and very well-nourished man with a ruddy face, wearing shabby but still presentable cutaway coat and gray trousers, and crowned by a steep and glittering stovepipe hat which twinkled like a heliograph in the dazzling winter glare. But, most amazing, when we elbowed a passage through the jocular crowd, we saw that this personable individual was wearing, instead of an overcoat, two large sandwich boards vigorously lettered as follows:
THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
 
OPENS TO-DAY 59 Ann Street
Celebrate the Merry Yuletide!
One Prodigious Meal,
$1 BUY A STRIP TICKET AND SAVE MONEY
 
TO-DAY ONLY 100 meals for $10
This corpulent sandwich man was blithely answering the banter of those who were not awed by the radiance of his headgear and the dignity of his mien, and passing out printed cards to those nearest him.
“Do all the hundred meals have to be eaten to-day?” asked Dulcet. “If so, the task is beyond my powers.”
“Like the man in the Bible,” I said, “he probably rented his garments. But he couldn't rent that admirable abdomen that proclaims him a well-fed man. It seems to me a very sound ad. for the chophouse.”
“Unquestionably,” said my friend, gravely, “he is the man who put the ad in adipose.”
The sandwich man, unabashed by these remarks, handed me one of his cards, which Dulcet and I read together:
K. Jefferson Gastric, the best-fed man south of 42nd Street, takes this importunity of urging you to become a steakholder in the Commutation Chophouse. Why pay for overhead expense? In the Commutation Chophouse all unnecessaries are discarded and you pay only for food, not for finger-bowls and a lovely female cashier. No tips. To-day Only, the Opening Day, to celebrate the jovial Yule, the management will sell Strip Tickets entitling you to 100 Glorious Meals, for $10.
At this point a policeman politely urged Mr. Gastric to move on, and he passed genially down Church Street, his resplendent hat glowing above a trail of followers.
“Come on,” I said; “it's time to eat, anyway. Let's go over to Ann Street and have a look at this philanthropic venture.”
“Well,” said Dulcet, “since it's your turn to buy, far be it from me to protest.”
The narrow channel of Ann Street is always crowded at the lunch hour, but on that occasion it was doubly congested with patrons of the amusing toyshops. We pushed patiently along, and passing Nassau Street moved into a darker and shabbier region. A sound of music rose upon the air. To our surprise, at the entrance to an unsuspected alley stood a fiddler playing a merry jig. Beside him was another sandwich man, also stout and well-favoured and in Fifth-Avenue attire, carrying boards which read:
ENTRANCE TO THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
 
Eat Drink and Be Merry For To-morrow We Die
To-day Only, for the Jocund Yule,
Strip Tickets for 100 Square Meals, $10
“This is highly diverting,” I said. “Apparently we go down this passage. Come on, everyone seems bound the same way. We won't get a seat unless we make haste.”
Dulcet was gazing reflectively at the sandwich boards. His blue eyes had a quizzical twinkle.
“For God, for country, and for Yule,” he said. “Queer that this should happen on Ann Street. I seem to remember——”
“Queer that it should happen anywhere,” I interrupted him. “It's a clever advertising stunt, anyway—100 meals for $10. It seems too good to be true.”
“The only thing I'm afraid of,” he said, “is that it is literally true.”
“Walk in, gents, give us a try,” cried the sandwich man. “Try anything once, gents.”
“Come on, Dove,” I said, seeing that others were crowding ahead of us down the alley. “None of your paradoxes!”
The narrow passage turned into a courtyard overlooked by old grimy warehouses with iron-shuttered windows. In one corner was a fine substantial brick building with a rounded front, and a long flight of wooden stairs that seemed to lead up to a marine junk shop, for old sea-boots and ships' lanterns and fenders hung along the wall. In a basement was an iron foundry where we could see the bright glow of a forge. Halfway down the little area was a low door with a huge stone lintel-piece over which was a large canvas sign: the commutation chophouse.
 
 
 
 
I must confess to an irrational affection for quaint eating places, and having explored downtown New York's crowded cafés and lunchrooms rather carefully in quest of a congenial tavern, the Commutation Chophouse struck me as highly original and pleasing. We stepped down into a very large and rather dark cellar that apparently had previously been used as a carpenter's shop, for a good many traces of the earlier tenancy were still visible. The furnishings were of the plainest, consisting simply of heavy wooden tables and benches. There was no linen on the tables, but the wood had been scrubbed scrupulously clean and there were piles of tissue napkins. From a door at the back waiters came rushing with trays of food. A glorious clatter of knives and forks filled the air, and it looked at first as though we would find no place to sit. As Dove expressed it, the room was loaded to the muzzle; and a continuous stream of patrons was coming down the alley, allured by the sandwich man and the absurd thin gayety of the fiddle. By the front door stood a dark young man, behind a small counter, selling tickets.
“One meal for a dollar,” he cried, repeatedly, as he took in money. “One hundred meals for ten dollars. Get your commutation tickets here.”
“We'll try two single meals to begin with,” I said, and put down a ten-dollar bill.
The young man rummaged in a drawer full of greasy notes to get the change. “Better get a commutation,” he said. “Tremendous saving.”
“I should think you'd need a cash register,” said Dulcet. “Handling all that kale, it would be useful in keeping the accounts straight.”
The young man looked up sharply.
“Say,” he retorted, “what are you, mister? Cash-register salesman? Step along please, don't block the gangway. Next! Seats in the rear! No, commutation tickets not transferable. Good only to the purchaser. Ten dollars, please. Next!”
“They seem to be coining money,” said Dove, as we found places at last in a rear corner.
“Well,” I said, “this is just the kind of place I like. By Jove, this building must be well over a hundred years old. Look at those beams in the ceiling. All they need is a few sporting prints and an open fireplace. Lit by candles, too, you see. Well, well, this is the real alehouse atmosphere. Why, it's as good as the Cheshire Cheese. This is the kind of place where I can imagine Doctor Johnson and Charles Lamb sitting in a corner.”
“You are an incurable sentimentalist,” he said. “Besides, Lamb would have had to sit on Johnson's knee, I expect. If I remember rightly, Lamb was a very small urchin when Doctor Johnson died.”
“Why be so literal?” I protested. “Haven't you any sentiment for fine antique flavour, and all that sort of thing?”
“If there is one thing where sentiment plays no part with me,” he said, “it is food. At meal times I am distinctly a realist. Fine antique flavour is rather upsetting when you find it in your meat. But still,” he continued, “I must admit this looks good.” He beamed approvingly at the thick chop and baked potatoes and beans and coffee the waiter had put down in front of us.
“Evidently you don't order your food,” I said. “They give you the standardized meal of the day. Fall to! These beans baked in cheese strike me as excellent.”
I have never seen waiters rush around with such speed as they did in that crowded cellar, where flickering candle-gleams cast a tawny light over the crowded tables of men packed shoulder to shoulder. They flashed in and out through the rear door like men possessed. They careered in with trays of steaming viands, crashed them down on the bare tables, and fled out again, napkins streaming behind them like pennants. Once they had delivered your food it seemed impossible to catch their gaze, for we tried to hail one to ask for ketchup. It was no use. He flew hither and yon with frantic and single-minded energy.
“These waiters speed like dervishes,” I said. “Evidently the no-tip rule does not lessen their zeal.”
“Perhaps they get a share in the profits of the enterprise,” said Dulcet, placidly.
Just behind us was a small barred window looking out on a street. It was at the ground level, and looking through the dusty pane I could see horses' hoofs going by, and the feet of pedestrians. Suddenly there was a great clang and crash outside, and I turned to look.
“What's up?” said Dulcet, who was cheerfully disposing of his chop as well as his neighbour's elbow would permit him.
“They seem to have spilled some beans,” I said, peering through the dusky aperture. “There's a truck delivering food or something at the back door. They've tipped over a can, I think.”
“Spilled some beans?” he said, with his first sign of real interest. “That sounds symbolic. Let me have a look.”
He stood up on the bench and gazed outward. Presently he sat down again and went on calmly with his meal. Some excellent cheese cake was brought us as dessert.
“That alley behind us,” he said. “I suppose it communicates with Beekman Street, doesn't it?”
“I guess so. Why?”
“Just wondering. Ben, I apologize for my skepticism. The food here is jolly good. In fact, it's so good that I think I've tasted it before. I am your debtor for a very enlarging experience. And now, as the crowd is becoming almost oppressive, and I can see that there are others eager to commute, suppose we smoke our cigars outdoors.”
“Right you are,” I said. “And since the food is eatable, and I happen to have the money with me, I think I'll invest in one of those strip tickets. Everyone else seems to be doing it, and it looks to me a good way to save money. A hundred lunches—why, that will see me through till spring. I don't think I'll get tired of eating here, it's so amusing.”
“No,” said Dove, as he picked up his hat, “I don't think you'll get tired of eating here. Perhaps the money will be well spent.”
I bought my commutation, and we stood in the shabby old courtyard for a few minutes watching the crowd stream in. A good many, I noticed, though unable to find seats, still took advantage of the opening-day offer and bought the hundred meal tickets for future consumption.
“The only drawback about this place is the crowd,” I said. “If this keeps up, half of downtown New York will be eating here.”
“Look here,” said Dove, “I think I shall be down this way again to-morrow. It's my turn to buy. Will you lunch with me then? We'll celebrate the jovial Yule together.”
“Fine,” I said. “Meet you at the old red newspaper-box at the corner of Broadway and Vesey to-morrow at 12 o'clock.”
 
 
 
 
We were both there punctually.
“Have you got your appetite with you?” asked Dove. “It's a bit early for feasting, but it'll give us time for a stroll after lunch.”
“Where do we eat?” I said. “Commutation again? It's all velvet to me, anyway, all my lunches are paid for for the next three months.”
“There's a little place on Beekman Street I used to know,” he said. “Let's try that.”
We found a corner table in an odd old eating house at the corner of Beekman and Gold streets, which I had never seen before.
“I'm a great believer in tit for tat, fair play, and all that sort of thing,” said Dulcet when the waiter approached. “You gave me an excellent lunch yesterday. I intend to give you the same lunch to-day, if you can stand eating it again. Waiter! Mutton chop, baked potato, baked beans, coffee, and cheese cake. For two.”
When the beans came, baked with cheese in a little brown dish, just as they were served the day before, I must confess that I was startled.
“Why, these beans are done exactly like those we had at the Commutation,” I said. “Are these people doing the cooking for the chop-house?”
“Perhaps you'll have to eat chop and beans for a hundred lunches,” Dulcet said. “Well, it's a hearty diet. After all, the sandwich boards simply said a hundred meals. They didn't guarantee that they would be different.”
I insisted that on our way back toward the office we should stop at the Commutation Chophouse and find out from a customer what the bill of fare had been on the second day. The vision of a hundred repetitions of any meal, however good, is rather ghastly.
“I don't hear the minstrel to-day,” Dove observed as we drew near the alley.
“Oh, well,” I said, “that was just to draw business for the opening.”
We turned down the passage at No. 59. Quite a crowd of patrons were waiting their turn, I saw. They were standing in the courtyard by the chop-house door, talking busily.
“You see,” I said, “it's still crowded.”
We reached the entrance. The door was closed. The sign over the doorway now had additional lettering painted on it, and read:
THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
 
The Other 99 Meals Will Be Served In Augusta, Maine.
“Come on, Ben,” said Dulcet. “No use trying to break through a window. There's no one there. I wonder what the fare is to Augusta?”
“You rascal!” I cried. “If you suspected this, why the devil did you encourage me to squander my $10?”
“I simply said it would probably be well spent,” he said, with a clear blue humorous gaze. “If it helps to cauterize your magnificent credulity, it will be.”
We sat down on a bench in St. Paul's churchyard to smoke a pipe together while I performed some mental obsequies over my vanished Federal Reserve certificate. Dove looked up at the sparkling gilded turret of the Woolworth.
 
 
 
 
“I daresay Frank Woolworth would have fallen for it, too,” Dove said. “The idea of a hundred meals for 10 cents each would have appealed to him. But you know, old man, there are certain fixed and immutable laws that the observant city dweller is accustomed to. My motto is, whenever you find an apparent exception to those laws, look for an enigma in the woodpile. I suspected something wrong when I saw that sandwich man on Church Street. A man as fat as that doesn't generally take a job sandwiching. Also I have doubts about people who insist on calling Christmas 'Yule'. Moreover, a man doesn't generally take a job sandwiching until his shirt is so ragged that he is ashamed to exhibit it in public, when he is glad to cover it up with the boards. Those two fat sandwicheers were members of the firm, I fear, for their linen was O. K. And, secondly, what are the first things a man gets if he really intends to start a restaurant? A cash register and a bunch of ketchup bottles. There wasn't a cash register nor a ketchup bottle in sight in the Commutation Chophouse. No, my dear; what you admired as carefully arranged atmosphere of antiquity, the plain board tables and candles and so on, was really stark cheapness. They weren't spending any money on overhead; they said so themselves.
“When you called my attention to the spilled beans, I was sure. For they were not merely beans: they were baked beans; a far more significant matter. When I looked out of the window I could see at once that there was no kitchen attached to the Commutation Chophouse. The food was all being delivered from that place on Beekman Street, whose name was on the truck. A few ingenious rogues simply rented that old cellar, cheaply enough I guess, put in a few tables, arranged to have grub shipped in from near by, printed their commutation tickets, and sat down to collect as many dollars as they could lure out of the open-handed Christmas throng.”
“Well, of all infernal liars,” I cried, “they certainly take the prize.”
“Not so,” said Dulcet as we got up to go. “You should have read the sandwich boards a little more carefully. Their ingenious author, whom you chide as the Ann Street Ananias, really told the exact and circumstantial truth.”
We stood at the gateway of the graveyard, and gazed across the roaring traffic of Broadway. Dove smiled and said he must be starting on his Christmas shopping.
“I tried to warn you,” he said, “but you wouldn't listen. As I was about to say just before we visited the place, it was queer that it should happen on Ann Street. Don't you remember that a certain famous gentleman had his museum at the corner of Broadway and Ann? And it was he, I think, who remarked that there's one born every minute. Well, Merry Christmas!”