Sondheim sprawled under the bed-covers, smoking; two other men sat on the edge of the bed––Karl Kastner and Nathan Bromberg. Both were smoking porcelain pipes. Three slopping quarts of beer decorated the wash stand.
Skidder, who had halted in the doorway as the full aroma of the place smote him, now entered at the curt suggestion of Sondheim, but refused a chair.
“Say, Sondheim,” he began, “I been to the club this morning, and I’ve seen what you’ve done to the place.”
“Well?” demanded Sondheim, in a growling voice, “what haf we done?”
“Oh, nothing;––smashed the furniture f’r instance. That’s all. But it don’t go with me. See?”
Kastner got up and gave him a sinister, near-sighted look: “If ve done damach ve pay,” he remarked.
“Sure you’ll pay!” blustered Skidder. “And that’s all right, too. But no more for yours truly. I’m through. Here’s where your bunch quits the hall for keeps. Get me?”
“Please?” inquired Kastner, turning a brick red.
“I say I’m through!” blustered Skidder. “You gotta get other quarters. It don’t pay us to keep on buying benches and mending windows, even if you cough up for ’em. It don’t pay us to rent the hall to your club 197 and get all this here notoriety, what with your red flags and the po-lice hanging around and nosin’ into everything–––”
“Ach wass!” snapped Kastner, “of vat are you speaking? Iss it for you to concern yourself mit our club und vat iss it ve do?”