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Show 151 Street, compliments of Belinda, who was no doubt trying to make up for our last trip to town. She did a fine job of it, too. The Fairview rooms were steam-heated, and newfangled electric lights hung from the ceilings, dazzling us. The skiny brass beds had real sheets and goose-down pillows. In the dining room the tables were spread with linen, sterling silver,, and bone china. The first night for supper we ordered everything on the menu we had never heard of before like mock turtle soup and piccalilli and Bengal Club chutney. Most of it turned out to be relish for things we had not ordered, but we ate it all and had plenty of room for pineapple sherbert. All the time out in the lobby under shimmering cut-glass chandeliers, a chamber orchestra played Brahms. And when Belinda told us all this had been packed by men and mules over the White Pass and down the Yukon River on scows, we could hardly eat or sleep for the wonder of it all. The next morning 'Tip waltzed into the dining room in her white furs, looking like the Queen of the North, and announced she would order breakfast for us. Caribou and I said it was all right with us. When the waiter brought the menu, she dismissed it with a wave of her hand, and said in a very peculiar voice: |
