“Monsieur speaks French?” he asked me politely, returning the box.
“Un poo, pas bocoo.” He recognized the accent immediately and smiled. “Je suis Americain; San Francisco, voo savvy.”
“German, perhaps?” he ventured.
“Ya wohl, etwas; aber Englisch am besten;” and I laughed.
“I speak English,” he answered, “and have been in England.”
“Been in America?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah!” and I smiled indulgently as if he had missed Heaven.
“You are a writer?” he asked next with pleasant inquisitiveness.
“Yes. I’m Siegel of the Screecher; which means that,” I added in reply to his look of bewilderment, and gave him one of Siegel’s cards. “Screecher is American for Eagle,” I explained. “And what are you?”