“Hoch!” grunted Freund, burying his nose in his frothing mug.
Soane, wasting no words, drank thirstily. After a long pull he shoved aside his sloppy stein, rose, cautiously unlatched the shutter of a tiny peep-hole in the wall, and applied one eye to it.
“Bad luck!” he muttered, “there do be wan av thim secret service lads drinkin’ at the bar! I’ll not go home yet, Max.”
“Dot big vone?” inquired Freund, mildly interested.
“That’s the buck! Him wid th’ phony whiskers an’ th’ Dootch get-up!”
“Vell, vot off it? Can he do somedings?”
“And how should I know phwat that lad can do to th’ likes o’ me, or phwat the divil brings him here at all, at all! Sure, he’s been around these three nights running——”
Freund laughed his contempt for all things American, including police and secret service, and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
“Look, once, Soane! Do these Yankees know vat it iss a police, a gendarme, a military intelligence? Vat they call secret service, wass iss it? I ask it? Schweinerei! Dummheit? Fantoches! Imbeciles! Of the Treasury they haff a secret service; of the Justice 163 Department also another; and another of the Army, and yet another of the Posts! Vot kind of foolish system iss it?—mitout no minister, no chef, no centre, no head, no organisation—und everybody interfering in vot efferybody iss doing und nobody knowing vot nobody is doing—ach wass! Je m’en moque—I make mock myself at dot secret service which iss too dam dumm!” He yawned. “Trop bête,” he added indistinctly.
Soane, reassured, lowered the shutter, came back to the table, and finished his beer with loud gulps.