“Where do you come from?”
Knowing that he would ask other questions, I explained fully why I was there, and told him that I was an American sailor on a sight-seeing trip in the Fatherland. The drinkers clustered about us and listened. I could see that they did not believe me. While I was talking, they began exchanging glances and nudging one another with looks of disbelief on their faces. Perhaps they distrusted me because I talked like a foreigner and wore the dress of a wanderer.
The proprietor blinked his pudgy eyes, glanced once more into the faces of those about him to see what they thought about it. It may be that he wanted to let me stay; but what would the police inspector say in the morning when he saw the name of a foreigner on the register? He scratched his grizzly head as if to bring out an idea with his stubby fingers. Then he glanced once more at the tipplers, and said, with a blink:
“It gives me pain, young man—I am sorry, but we have not a bed left in the house.”
I wandered out into the night, and told my story to five other inn-keepers. None of them would take me in. One proprietor told me the best way for me to preserve my good health was to make a quick escape into the street. As he was a creature of immense size, I lost no time in following his advice. It was midnight when I finally induced a policeman to tell me where to stay. He pointed out an inn where wanderers were not so much of a curiosity, and I was soon asleep.
The next morning I set out to find the birthplace of the German poet Goethe. When I reached a part of the city where I thought he had lived, I asked a policeman to show me the house.
“Goethe?” he said. Why, yes, he believed he had heard that name somewhere. He was not sure, but he fancied the fellow lived in the eastern part of the city, and he told me how to get there. The route led through narrow, winding streets. Now and then I lost my way, and was set right by other keepers of the law. At last, after tramping most of the morning and wearing out considerable shoe-leather, I found the place directly across the street from the inn at which I had slept.
The next morning I made up my mind to go by rail to Weimar. The train was to start at nine o’clock. I reached the station at eight-forty, bought a fourth-class ticket, and stepped out upon the platform just in time to hear a guard bellow the German words for “All aboard!” The Weimar train stood close at hand. As I stepped toward it, four policemen, strutting about the platform, whooped and sprang after me.
“Where are you going?” shrieked the first to reach me.
“I go to Weimar.”