Carl Wiesenhavern, a man of noble character, and, therefore a man who hates knavery, and has no fear of a knave, answered with his peculiar German coolness, "Here I am, what do you want?"
"Nobblers round," was the eager reply.
"If that's what you want," replied Wiesenhavern, "you shall have it with pleasure."
"We got no money."
"I did not ask for any: understand me well, though;" pointing at each of them with the forefinger of his clenched right hand, "you will have a nobbler a-piece, and no more: afterwards you will go your way. Are you satisfied with my conditions?"
"Yes, yes! we agree to that: go on you b——."
Wiesenhavern scorned to notice the fellow, and, according to the old custom of the house, placed two decanters of brandy, together with the tumblers, on the bar, saying, "Help yourselves, gentlemen."
They fell at once upon the brandy, and their mean rascality was shown by some seizing the glass and covering it with the full hand to conceal their greediness. Nobbler-drinking is an old colonial habit; it gives pluck to the coward when he is 'up to something;' so happened it with these fellows.
"Well, landlord, your brandy is d—-d good—the real sort of stuff, and no b——y mistake. You shouted nobblers round for all hands—that's all right; it's no more than fair and square now for the boys to shout for you:" and, with a horrible curse, "Fill up the bottles; let's have another round."
Wiesenhavern kept himself quiet. One of the ruffians showed his intention to enter the bar, and play the landlord within. Wiesenhavern coolly persuaded him back by the promise he would fetch from his room, "something rowdy, the right old sort of stuff—Champagne Cognac, 'tres vieux'." The fellows presumed their 'bouncing' was all the go now, and laughed and cursed in old colonial style.