A GIRL IN THE SOUP.

Otago Witness, Issue 3775, 20 July 1926, Page 81

A GIRL IN THE SOUP.

By

Murray Fisher.

(Copyright.—For the Witness.) “Thici, sir?” asked the waiter, in-, gratiatingly, “or clear?” . Little Mr Puttert™ ceased considering the chances of safety lor his hat and stick, which had been lured from him to be deposited in some far, unknown corner, ol the Greek street restaurant, and marshalled his mental forces for a decision. Ho was sufficiently a man of the world to have realised that thousands of restaurant diners nightly allowed themselyes, without fuss, to be temporarily deprived of all loose adjuncts to their wearing anoarel, and that the thibk or clear decision was sure to be thrust upon him before he was entirely at his ease in the new and agitating environment of a busy dining place; but at the same time, he was so unaccustomed to it all that it confused him terribly. Besides, he was quite unused to making anv sort of decisions at all, having fortunately for himself a perfectly good wife only too ready to decide anything and everything for him. Mrs Putterton, before she met and decided to marry the suburban architect, had been a music teacher of the daughters of Mayfair, and to-night she was paying a visit of inspection to a whilom pupil of high degree whose doting mother had decided to exhibit to her most trusted retainers her daughter’s coming-out outfit. When Mr Putterton, for the first time in 10 years, found himself wifeless and off the chain, so to speak, he lost his head completely, seized his hat, and decided that for probably the last time in his life he would be a devil, dine at a Soho restaurant, and mingle for one evening with the wicked, thrilling world of Western London. Accordingly, he thrust from him the acrostics which this thoughtful wife had provided for his entertainment during the evening, brought forth a secret store of hair pomaae, purchased for himself a new Hack tie with golden stars on it, let loose the yellow spats, and in due course of time found himself wondering wildly whether lsobel would consider thick or clear soup the least indigestible for him to partake of at eight o’clock in the evening. Meanwhile the waiter, finding himself loudly and incessantl-j summoned by a flashing and large-nosed party of Semitic origin further down the room, with a patient sigh dumped the two plates of “thick an<£ clear” on the table for the indecisive diner to make his decision at leisure, and