“What comes next, good host?” cried the third Captain, as he wiped his lips with his napkin.
“Next!” cried the host, in horror, “Hagel und regen! thou canst not eat more, surely!”
“I don’t know that,” replied the other, “the air of these mountains freshens the appetite—I might pick a little of something sweet.”
With a groan of misery, the poor host placed a plum pie before the all-devouring stranger, and then, as if to see that no legerdemain was practised, stationed himself directly in front, and watched every morsel, as he put it into his mouth. No, the thing was all fair, he ate like any one else, grinding his food and smacking his lips, like an ordinary mortal. The host looked down on the floor, and beneath the cloth of the table—what was that for? Did he suspect the stranger had a tail?
“A glass of mulled claret with cloves!” said the frenchman, “and then you may bring the dessert.”
“The Heavens be praised!” cried the host as he swept the last fragments of the table into a wide tray, and left the room.
“Egad! I thought you had forgotten me altogether, Captain,” said a stout, fat fellow, as he squeezed himself with difficulty through the window, and took his seat at the table. This was the Quarter-master of the Regiment, and celebrated for his appetite throughout the whole brigade.
“Ach Gott! how he is swelled out!” was the first exclamation of the host, as he re-entered the room; “and no wonder either, when one thinks of what he has eaten.”
“How now, what’s this?” shouted the Quarter-master, as he saw the dessert arranging on the table, “Sacré tonnerre! what’s all this?”
“The dessert—if you can eat it,” said the host, with a deep sigh.