Arth was shaking my arm. "Want another mass?"
The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaring accompaniment.
In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!
Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!
At the G'sufa everybody upped with their king-size mugs and drank each other's health.
My head was killing me. "This is where I came in, or something," I groaned.
Arth said, "That was last night." He looked at me over the rim of his beer mug.
Something, somewhere, was wrong. But I didn't care. I finished my mass and then remembered. "I've got to get my bag. Oh, my head. Where did we spend last night?"
Arth said, and his voice sounded cautious, "At my hotel, don't you remember?"
"Not very well," I admitted. "I feel lousy. I must have dimmed out. I've got to go to the Bahnhof and get my luggage."
Arth didn't put up an argument on that. We said good-by and I could feel him watching after me as I pushed through the tables on the way out.