“Have you any lager,” asked Herr Schmidt eagerly.
“No; don’t deal in that article. Brandy is better.”
“Nothing so good as lager,” murmured Johann, closing his eyes and panting.
Nevertheless he took the brandy, and was mischievously plied with more till, sad as I am to record it, the worthy Johann got decidedly fuddled, and losing sight of his unfortunate position, volunteered a German song, which convulsed his audience with mirth.
“You’re a jolly old boy,” said the lieutenant, slapping him on the shoulder. “Won’t you stay with us and take up our trade?”
“What’s der wages?” asked Johann gravely.
“Fifty dollars a month and found.”
“You give me fifty dollars a month, and then you find me,” repeated the Dutchman soberly.
Probably this was not meant as a joke, but it was so understood, and Herr Schmidt was amazed at the universal merriment which followed. But he bethought himself of a condition.
“I must have my Katrine and my Kinder here, too.”