"Geht-weg!" snarled Mr. Rutgers. The waiter, a nostalgic look in his big blue eyes, went away. Ach, to be treated like a dog! Ach, the Fatherland! And the officers! Ach!
"Weinpusslacher," said Rutgers, irascibly, "who is your lawyer and what's his address?"
C. Weinpusslacher's little pig-eyes gleamed apprehensively.
"For why you wish to know?" he said.
"Don't ask me questions. Isn't he your friend?"
"Is he smart?"
"Smart?" C. Weinpusslacher laughed now, fatly. "He's too smart for you, all right. He's Max Ondemacher, 397 Bowery. I guess if you—"
"All right. I'm going to bring him to lunch here."
"He wouldn't lunch here. He's got money," said C. Weinpusslacher, proudly.