But the proprietor of the garden cried:
"Donnerkeil! damned swine ... a bench broken."
And he started off with his towel under his arm, calling loudly for the waiters:
"Franz! Jacob! Ludwig! Martin!" while the patrons called for the proprietor:
"Ober! Ober!"
However the Oberkellner and the waiters did not come back. The drinkers crowded about the counters and took their steins themselves, but the kegs were no longer emptied, and no more were heard the sonorous blows of another cask being put under the hammer. The singing ceased, the drinkers, angered, proffered oaths at the brewers and at the March beer itself. Some profited by the lull to vomit with violent efforts, their eyes almost popping out of their heads; their neighbors encouraged them with imperturbable seriousness. Hans Irlbeck who had picked himself up, not without difficulty, grumbled with a great snort:
"There is no more beer in Munich!"
And he repeated, with the accent of his native city:
"Minchen! Minchen! Minchen!"
After raising his eyes toward heaven, he fell upon a vendor of fowls, and having ordered him to roast a goose for him, began to formulate his desires: