“Come, Kindchen!” he called. “Get your bonnet on. We will by Baumbach’s go, no?”
Ruefully I gazed at the grimy cuffs of my blouse, and felt of my dishevelled hair. “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t go. I look so mussy. Haven’t had time to brush up.”
“Brush up!” scoffed Blackie, “the only thing about you that will need brushin’ up is your German. I was goin’ t’ warn you to rumple up your hair a little so you wouldn’t feel overdressed w’en you got there. Come on, girl.”
And so I came. And oh, I’m so glad I came!
I must have passed it a dozen times without once noticing it—just a dingy little black shop nestling between two taller buildings, almost within the shadow of the city hall. Over the sidewalk swung a shabby black sign with gilt letters that spelled, “Franz Baumbach.”
Blackie waved an introductory hand in the direction of the sign. “There he is. That’s all you’ll ever see of him.”
“Dead?” asked I, regretfully, as we entered the narrow doorway.
“No; down in the basement baking Kaffeekuchen.”
Two tiny show-windows faced the street—such queer, old-fashioned windows in these days of plate glass. At the back they were quite open to the shop, and in one of them reposed a huge, white, immovable structure—a majestic, heavy, nutty, surely indigestible birthday cake. Around its edge were flutings and scrolls of white icing, and on its broad breast reposed cherries, and stout butterflies of jelly, and cunning traceries of colored sugar. It was quite the dressiest cake I had ever beheld. Surely no human hand could be wanton enough to guide a knife through all that magnificence. But in the center of all this splendor was an inscription in heavy white letters of icing: “Charlottens Geburtstag.”
Reluctantly I tore my gaze from this imposing example of the German confectioner’s art, for Blackie was tugging impatiently at my sleeve.