In fact, come to think of it, it
rained about all the way.
When we reached Marion, Ill. I said, "There is a time and place
for everything. Drive up to that Standard station on the left. I
want to ask him the best place in town to eat." He did, and I
did. The fellow cited us to "The Hut." Enroute, I said, "Frank,
I'll bet three to one The Hut is a dump. Whenever they recommend
Huts or Mike's Place or Pat's Place or Joan's and Joe's or any
Dinty Moore's, you can just about bet your wad they're dumps." I
looked while he parked. It had eight revolving stools. I said,
"Let's walk to that filling station yonder. I know this town has
a better place. I saw an intelligent first class looking trucker
just outside and asked him, telling him I hadn't eaten anything
except segments of big Hershey bars all day long and I wanted
good food and a table to sit at. He directed us "around the Court
House following the traffic, then north to the place next-door to
the Adam Shoe Store with the big electric shoe hanging out in
front--you can't miss it." The place looked rather shoddy but it
had three pine booths and nine revolving stools. A trifle
desperate, we sat down. A fuzzy fat girl came from behind nowhere
with one menu.
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