his thick voice. “Congradulade me, congradulade me; mein vife has giben birth to a poy.”
Thatcher shook a fat little hand. “Mine’s a girl,” he admitted, sheepishly.
“It is fif years yet and every year a girl, and now dink of it, a poy.”
“Yes,” said Ed Thatcher as they stepped out on the pavement, “it’s a great moment.”
“Vill yous allow me sir to invite you to drink a congradulation drink mit me?”
“Why with pleasure.”
The latticed halfdoors were swinging in the saloon at the corner of Third Avenue. Shuffling their feet politely they went through into the back room.
“Ach,” said the German as they sat down at a scarred brown table, “family life is full of vorries.”
“That it is sir; this is my first.”
“Vill you haf beer?”