"So far as that goes, Mr. Trinkmann," Louis commenced, "I ain't——"
"And if you get fresh to me oder to the customers, Louis," Trinkmann concluded, "you wouldn't get your money, neither."
"Did the customers ever done me anything, Mr. Trinkmann?" Louis retorted. "Why should I get fresh to the customers which every one of them is my friends, Mr. Trinkmann? And as for getting fresh to you, Mr. Trinkmann, if I would want to I would. Otherwise not."
With this defiance Louis picked up his polishing cloth and his apron and proceeded to the kitchen, to which Marcus and Albert had already retreated. His courage remained with him until he had refastened his apron, and then he discerned Marcus and Albert to be regarding him with so mournful a gaze that the balloon again expanded in his throat, and forthwith—to pursue the simile further—it burst. He opened the door leading from the kitchen to the paved space littered with packing boxes, which had once been the backyard, and despite the cold March weather he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
Ten minutes later the first luncheon customer arrived and Louis hastened to wait upon him. It was Max Maikafer, salesman for Freesam, Mayer & Co., and he greeted Louis with the familiarity of six years' daily acquaintance.
"Nu, Louis," he said, "what's the matter you are catching such a cold in your head?"
Louis only sniffled faintly in reply.
"A feller bums round till all hours of the night, understand me," Max continued, "and sooner or later, Louis, a lowlife—a Shikkerer—gives him a Schlag on the top from the head, verstehest du, and he would got worser as a cold, Louis."
Louis received this admonition with a nod, since he was incapable of coherent speech.
"So, therefore, Louis," Max concluded, as he looked in a puzzled fashion at Louis' puffed eyelids, "you should bring me some Kreploch soup and a little gefüllte Rinderbrust, not too much gravy."