"Waiter, two 'bocks.'"
A voice in the distance repeated:
"Two bocks, instead of four."
Another voice, more distant still, shouted out:
"Here they are, sir, here they are."
Immediately there appeared a man with a white apron, carrying two "bocks," which he sat down foaming on the table, the spouts facing over the edge, on to the sandy floor.
Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught and replaced it on the table. He next asked:
"What is there new?"
"I know of nothing new, worth mentioning, really," I stammered:
"But nothing has grown old, for me; I am a commercial man."