“Yah,” replied the buxom lady, but not with much enthusiasm.
“Meppy you peen Frau Dinkelmann, yes, no?”
“Yah.”
“Vell, I peen Deutsch meinseluf, und I rite seferal miles oudt oof my vay schust for a leedle talk mit friendts from Chermany.”
“For vy you nod shpeak der Deutsche sprache?” inquired Frau Dinkelmann skeptically.
“Pecause I dry hardt to make some berfections in der English.”
The baron, however, in order to prove that he was not an impostor, rattled away in his native tongue. Herr Dinkelmann was in the cabin, but he was not feeling well. He was a good-for-nothing, the herr, and he was not brave enough to call his soul his own except when he was at his schnapps. Would the baron put up his mule in the corral behind the house, and come in?
The baron would—and did.
He found the interior of the house a bare enough place. There were two chairs and a lounge in the front room, and a table on which stood the lamp.
Herr Dinkelmann was stretched out on the lounge. He was a short, fat man and seemed in great distress over something.