IN the large dining room of the hotel were eight tables, and there was a black waiter for each table. We ate at what was known as the Colonel’s table, and Tom was our waiter. He was as black as the “ace of spades,” but the very pink of politeness. I became so familiar with his “formula” or bill of fare, that I can repeat it now. In times of plenty it was, “Roast beef, roast pork, co’n beef, or meat pie.” Also, “beef-steak or po’k-steak.” If one chose the former, Tom would ask, “Well done or rare?”

Many times there was such a rush for the dining room that it almost amounted to a mob, and both doors leading into it were kept locked. Several trains arrived at noon, and emptied themselves of passengers into the Manassas House, and many times a lot of hungry soldiers came pouring in just as dinner was ready. On one occasion a revolver was fired in the mad rush for entrance. The regular boarders were instructed to knock at the rear door, and my timid little tap was responded to as promptly as that of the wearer of gold cord and glittering shoulder straps.