The Miracle.
Once upon a time there was one Herbert. The doctor being unwilling to pass him so that there was no chance that he, in the words of the great joke, would "march too," he had taken a situation as a waiter.
Englishmen (it is an axiom) do not make good waiters; nor was he an exception. But he was conscientious and painstaking, although clumsy and of short memory. Still, this was war-time, and Hans had gone to Germany and might now be dead, and Fritz very properly was interned, and Josef had sought Vienna once more, and Pasquale and Giuseppe had rejoined the Italian flag, and the only foreigners left were a few nondescripts, very volubly, indeed almost passionately, of Swiss nationality. In fact, if this War has done nothing else it has at least established the fact that the male population of Switzerland is far greater than any one had supposed. Gallant little Switzerland!
So you see this was Herbert's chance, and the manager was glad to get him; and Herbert, who, owing to the slump in games, had lost his job at an athletic sports factory and had certain financial liabilities which he had long since abandoned any hope of meeting, was glad to come. Only, by infinite self-denial and sacrifice did he get together the necessary capital for his clothes and the deposit demanded from waiters against breakages, theft and so forth.
On his first day as one in charge of three or four tables Herbert made some very serious mistakes. He was complained of for slowness, he turned over a sauce-boat, he broke a glass, and he forgot to charge for the cigar which the portly gentleman in the corner had taken after his lunch. And this cigar was a half-crown Corona, for the portly gentleman either had not yet grasped the full meaning of War economy or was enjoying one of those periodical orgies to which even rigid economist think themselves to be entitled.
Already Herbert had, like Alnaschar in the Eastern tale, spent imagination far more than he could make all the week, and this blow, with the manager's abuse to serve as salt in the wound, sent him home in misery. Nor was it as if the portly gentleman was a regular customer who could be reminded of the error (little as such reminding is to the taste of regular customers); on the contrary, he had never been known to visit the restaurant before. You see, then, how unhappily Herbert viewed life as he lay awake in his attic that night, and very heavy were his feet on his way to work the next day, with an overcoat buttoned up to his neck to hide his evening dress.
It was a cold rainy morning; the wind raged; and the very indifferent soles of Herbert's boots absorbed moisture like blotting-paper. Everything was against him. There was not a gleam of hope in the future, not a ray of light. His companions were surly, the manager was venomous, the bitter rain fell on. He was in debt and would get the sack.
It was then that the miracle happened. Suddenly Herbert, who was gazing forlornly through the window at this disconsolate world, waiting, napkin on his arm, to begin to wait, heard a voice saying, "I'm afraid you forgot to charge me for my cigar yesterday." It was the portly gentleman. Life was not utterly hopeless any more.
Old Lady, "Ah, it'll take more than preaching to make them Zeppelins repent!"