I was beginning to get interested.

"'I, too, have a rifle,'" I repeated. "Yes! I can remember that; but I shall be talking like a poll-parrot for I shan't have the least idea what it means."

"You need not know much," Guest answered. "Those words are your pa.s.sport into the No. 1 Branch of the Waiters' Union, whose committee, by the bye meet at the Cafe Suisse. If you are asked why you wish to join, you need only say because you are a German!"

"Right," I answered. "I'll get into the clothes."

Guest gave me a few more instructions while I was changing, and by four o'clock punctually I opened the swing door of No. 13, Old Compton Street.

The place consisted of a waiting-room, very bare and very dirty; a counter, behind which two or three clerks were very busy writing in ponderous, well-worn ledgers, and an inner door. I made my way towards one of the clerks, and inquired in my best German if I could see Mr.

Hirsch.

The clerk--he was as weedy a looking youth as ever I had seen--pointed with ink-stained finger to the benches which lined the room.

"You wait your turn," he said, and waved me away.

I took my place behind at least a dozen boys and young men, whose avocation was unmistakable. Most of them were smoking either cigarettes or a pipe, and most of them were untidy and unhealthy looking. They took no notice of me, but sat watching the door to the inner room, which opened and shut with wonderful rapidity. Every time one of their number came out, another took his place. It came to my turn sooner than I could have believed possible.

I found myself in a small office, untidy, barely furnished, and thick with tobacco smoke. Its only occupant was a stout man, with flaxen hair and beard, and mild blue eyes. He was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, and smoking a very black cigar.

"Well?" he exclaimed, almost before I had crossed the threshold.

"My name is Paul Schmidt," I said, "and I should like to join the Waiters' Union."

"Born?"

"Offenbach!"

"Age?"

"Thirty!"

"Working?"

"Cafe Suisse!"

"Come from?"

"America!"

He tossed me a small handbook.

"Half-a-crown," he said; holding out his hand.

I gave it him. I was beginning to understand why I had not been kept very long waiting.

"Clear out!" he said. "No questions, please. The book tells you everything!"

I looked him in the face.

"I, too, have a rifle," I said boldly.

I found, then, that those blue eyes were not so mild as they seemed. His glance seemed to cut me through and through.

"You understand what you are saying?" he asked.

"Yes!" I answered. "I want to join the No. 1 Branch."

"Why?"

"Because I am a German," I answered.

"Who told you about it?"

"A waiter named Hans in the Manhattan Hotel, New York."

I lied with commendable prompt.i.tude.

"Have you served?" he asked.

"At Mayence, eleven years ago," I answered.

"Where did you say that you were working?" he asked.

"Cafe Suisse!" I said.

It seemed to me that he had been on the point of entering my name in a small ledger, which he had produced from one of the drawers by his side, but my answer apparently electrified him. His eyes literally held mine.

He stared at me steadily for several moments.

"How long have you been there?" he asked. "I do not recognize you."

"I commence to-day," I said. "My uncle has just taken the cafe. He will make me his head-waiter."

"Has your uncle been in the business before?" he asked.

"He kept a saloon in Brooklyn," I answered.

"Made money at it?"

"Yes!"

"Were you with him?"

"No! I was at the Manhattan Hotel."

"Your uncle will not make a fortune at the Cafe Suisse," he remarked.

"I do not think," I answered, "that he will lose one."

"Does he know what you propose?"