“Dut—Mr. Damrosch!” he called. “It’s MacDonald. I want to talk to you.”
This time his knock was answered, and so suddenly as to cause him to jump back in surprise.
“Veil, vat iss it?” demanded Dutchy, scowling belligerently.
“We’re—we’re—” stammered MacDonald, his confidence a little shaken at the proprietor’s attitude. Then, desperately: “Oh, I say, confound it all, Dutchy, we’re hungry.”
“So!” Dutchy’s exclamation was a world of innocent astonishment and kindly interest.
“Yes,” went on MacDonald, diplomatically. “You bet we are. It’s been a good joke, but you’ve had the best end of it. Let’s call it quits, there’s a good fellow, and—and give us all a handout.”
Dutchy listened attentively to the appeal.
“I, a fool iss no longer yet, don’d it?” he queried softly.
“You most decidedly are not,” MacDonald assured him.
“You vill for repates no longer ask, yet?” persisted Mr. Damrosch.