Next to come was a German nobleman. Upon learning the amount of his indebtedness he produced a yellow slip and put it into the hand of the Swiss.
“This,” he said, “is the bill of lading for a carload of marks which arrived yesterday, consigned to me. The car is now at the station. Go there and get as many bales as you need.”
The third patron was a Russian prince. After a glance at his bill he drew from an inner pocket a flat thin heavy package which gave off a metallic sound as he deposited it upon the desk-top.
“What’s this?” asked the hotel-keeper.
“These,” said the Russian, “are the engraver’s plates. Kindly take them and print as many million-ruble notes as may be required.”
§ 242 Regarding the Brooklyn Boys
It would seem that a person named George customarily patronized a certain bar wherein gathered nightly a group of men whose highest ambition was to be on their feet when all the others were under the table, and whose proudest boast was that they had never been known to “pass out of the picture.” To these ambitions George subscribed.
One night they missed George. Nor did he come the next evening, nor the next, nor the next. It was a month before he reappeared; and then he was so swathed in bandages, so painfully hopping on crutches, that they swarmed around him with excited questionings.
“How did I get this way?” said George. “Well, I’ll tell you. Y’ remember that las’ night I was here? Drinkin’ pretty heavy that night, but you know how it is with me. . . . When I left, the ol’ bean was as clear as a bell. Actually, I might just as well not a’ had anything. Well, somehow I knew the Brooklyn Boys were going to show up that night: I sort of felt it. And when I turned out the light an’ hopped into the ol’ bed, sure enough there was two of them—one on each corner, down by my feet.”
“The Brooklyn Boys?” somebody queried.