"Now, chuck it, Krafft!" cried one or two, not without alarm at the turn things might take.
But Schilsky, whose anger had begun to subside under the influence of the two litres he had drunk, said slowly and thickly: "Let him be. What he says is the truth—gospel truth."
"Oh, say, that's to' bad!" cried one of the Americans—a lean man, with the mouth and chin of a Methodist.
All kept silence now, in the hope that Schilsky would continue. As he did not, but sat brooding, Furst, in his role of peacemaker, clapped him on the back. "Well, forget it for to-night, old man! What does it matter? To-morrow you'll be miles away."
This struck a reminiscence in Ford, who forthwith tried to sing:
I'm off by the morning train,
Across the raging main——
"That's easily said!" Schilsky threw a dark look round the table. "By those who haven't been through it. I have. And I'd rather have lost a hand."
Krafft laughed—that is to say, a cackle of laughter issued from his mouth, while his glazed eyes stared idiotically. "He shall tell us about it. Waiter, a round of SCHNAPS!"
"Shut up, Krafft!" said Furst uneasily.
"Damn you, Heinz!" cried Schilsky, striking the table. He swallowed his brandy at a gulp, and held out the glass to be refilled. His anger fell still more; he began to commiserate himself. "By Hell, I wish a plague would sweep every woman off the earth!"