said Harold Shea.“Porterhouse, sirloin—?” asked the waitress.“Both, so long as they’re big and rare.”“Harold,” said Gertrude Mugler, “whatever this is all about, please be careful of your diet. A large protein intake for a man who doesn’t do physical labor—”“Physical labor!” barked Shea. “The last meal I had was twenty-four hours ago, and it was a little dish of oatmeal mush. Sour, too. Since then I’ve fought a duel with a couple of giants, done acrobatics on a magic broomstick, had a ride on a god’s enchanted brewery-horse—Well, anyway, I’ve been roasted and frozen and shaken and nearly scared to death, and by Thor’s hammer I want food!”“Harold, are you—are you feeling well?”“Fine, toots. Or I will be when I surround some grub.” He turned to the waitress again: “Steak!”“Listen, Harold,” persisted Gertrude. “Don’t! You pop out of nowhere in that crazy costume; you talk wildly about things you couldn’t expect anyone to believe—”“You don’t have to believe I popped out of nowhere, either,”
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