Blynn explained. “A ‘tin-type’ is a cheap photograph. ‘Not on your tin-type’ is slang for—for, well, for ‘Gar nichts.’”
“Not on his tin-type,” Bardek rolled his eyes, to the great amusement of “Chuck.” “Nicht auf seiner Photographie! It is the language for peddlers.”
They chatted in mixed English and German for several minutes; at least, Bardek did; that is, when he wasn’t singing, or teaching “Chuck” some good colloquial German.
“Uh! Schweinerei!” he grunted in smiling disgust. “Chuck” had spat, American style, at a passing bee. “‘Schweinerei,’ my boy, means ‘piggy.’ But the pigs, they do not spit. Only the Americans spit. Everywhere in America is the sign, ‘Pray, do not spit here!’ ‘Pray, do not spit there!’ Ach, Schweinerei! Vierte Klasse! That’s a good word for you, ‘Vierte Klasse!’ I, I am of the Vierte Klasse, but I, I do not yet spit!”
Blynn studied the man before him. The frank, open manner, the voluble utterance, the great healthy laughter stole into his prejudice and substituted liking. This is a chap one had to be friends with; yet Blynn knew that good fellows are not always harmless. There was something coarse about the man that repelled, the very thing, too, that attracted: his unspoken egoism, his quiet, outspoken self-satisfaction. Unconventionality beamed from him; too frequently, Blynn knew, a sign of selfishness. Would this fellow continue agreeable and jolly under provocation? It did not seem so. Or if his strong desires met with obstacle? Law, order, the rules of decent society, these he probably scoffed at; anything, indeed, that demanded restraint or curbing.
“I tried to talk to you yesterday,” Blynn remarked, “but the horse wouldn’t have it.”
“Yesterday?” Bardek raised his eyes in inquiry. “The horse would not?—Ach!” he roared, “you it was who—Ho!” he laughed at the memory. “You say, ‘I cannot understand’ and then you cannot up-stand!” Bardek imitated by a pretence of flopping to the ground at the syllable “stand.” “I see very well that you could not ‘stand.’ You could not but sit. And it was something hard, nicht wahr, when you did sit!”
His laughter died out suddenly. “Wait,” he raised a hand. “It was the Miss Levering you were with? Yes? Excuse. I must see about something.” He really said, “Som’t’ing,” with just the suggestion of a studied “th,” but one could never indicate his speech phonetically. Sometimes, the “th” was clear, sometimes it was a “t,” sometimes a “z” or “d.” His English varied from right speech to a broken jargon, but always it was rich and clear. “Wait! I come back, auf der Stelle, in one moment.”
The bushes closed in about him. It was as if he had vanished, a fat satyr of the woods.
After a brief moment of silence his face appeared, and it was eloquent with welcome.