“I want to get in—a place in the boxes, or a ‘stalle’ in the ‘balcon’—anywhere will do.”
“What for?” cried she again.
“What for!—for the play to be sure—for the ‘Junker in den Resident.’”
“He is not here at all—go your ways—or I’ll call the Polizey,” yelled she, while, banging the window, there was an end of the dialogue.
“Can I be of any service to you, mein Herr?” said a portly little fellow, without a coat, who was smoking at his door—“What is it you want?”
“I came to see a play,” said I, in amazement at the whole proceedings, “and here I find nothing but an old beldam that threatens me with the police.”
“Ah! as for the play I don’t know,” replied he, scratching his head, “but come with me over here to the ‘Fox’ and we’re sure to see the Herr Director.”
“But I’ve nothing to do with the Herr Director,” said I; “if there’s no performance I must only go back again—that’ s all.”
“Aye! but there may though,” rejoined my friend; “come along and see the Herr himself, I know him well, and he’ll tell you all about it.”
The proposition was at least novel, and as the world goes, that same is not without its advantages, and so I acceded, and followed my new guide, who, in the careless négligée of a waistcoat and breeches, waddled along before me.