“Why do you tell us that, as if it was so very striking? Don’t we know it, and haven’t we known it always? But you are right; we behave as if we knew nothing at all,” said Mr Schinkel, the German cabinet-maker, who had originally introduced Captain Sholto to the ‘Sun and Moon’. He had a long, unhealthy, benevolent face and greasy hair, and constantly wore a kind of untidy bandage round his neck, as if for a local ailment. “You remind us—that is very well; but we shall forget it in half an hour. We are not serious.”
“Pardon, pardon; for myself, I do not admit that!” Poupin replied, striking the table with his finger-tips several times, very fast. “If I am not serious, I am nothing.”
“Oh no, you are something,” said the German, smoking his monumental pipe with a contemplative air. “We are all something; but I am not sure it is anything very useful.”
“Well, things would be worse without us. I’d rather be in here, in this kind of muck, than outside,” remarked the fat man who understood dogs.
“Certainly, it is very pleasant, especially if you have your beer; but not so pleasant in the east, where fifty thousand people starve. It is a very unpleasant night,” the cabinet-maker went on.
“How can it be worse?” Eustache Poupin inquired, looking defiantly at the German, as if to make him responsible for the fat man’s reflection. “It is so bad that the imagination recoils, refuses.”
“Oh, we don’t care for the imagination!” the fat man declared. “We want a compact body, in marching order.”
“What do you call a compact body?” the little gray-faced shoemaker demanded. “I dare say you don’t mean your kind of body.”
“Well, I know what I mean,” said the fat man, severely.
“That’s a grand thing. Perhaps one of these days you’ll tell us.”