"Herr does the barmaid too much honor," with lowered eyes.
"I, am in the habit of doing anything I please."
"Ah, Herr is one of those millionaires I have read about!"
"Yes, I am very rich." I laughed, but Gretchen did not see the point.
"Come, then, with me, and you shall weed the knoblauch patch."
She was laughing at me, but I was not to be abashed.
"To the patch be it, then!" I cried. "An onion would smell as sweet under any other name."
So Gretchen and I went into the onion patch, and I weeded and hoed and hoed and weeded till my back ached and my hands were the color of the soil. Nothing was done satisfactorily to Gretchen. It was, "There, you have ruined the row back of you!" or "Pull the weeds more gently!" and sometimes, "Ach! could your friends see you now!" I suppose that I did not make a pretty picture. The perspiration would run down my face. I would forget the condition of my hands and push back my hair, which fell like a mop over my brow, whereat she would laugh. Once I took her hand and helped her to jump over a row. I was surprised at the strength of her grasp.
"What does Herr do for a living, he works so badly as a gardener?"
"I am a journalist," I answered, leaning on my hoe and breathing heavily.