Mike lifted one eyebrow, and that with an effort. Otherwise he stirred not.
“S'il vous plait!” said the little cashier determinedly.
“Mine's a beer,” returned the smeary one.
“If you please!” she stamped her foot in the universal and unmistakable language.
“Oh, I got you the foist time,” drawled Mike. “You should worry. They won't be here.”
“No—o—o—oah?” queried Elsa in a soaring whoop of amazement.
“Not this evenin', nor any other evenin'! You can plant a 'To Let' sign on their table. They won't care.”
“Warum? Pourquoi pas? W'y not?”
The repository of terrible secrets delivered himself of his theme in complacent triumph. “War's just declared between France and Germany. That's w'y not.”
Thus the tremendous news came to Thomsen's. On the heels of it came the Teutonic Jonathan. Inky Mike rose astounded and hastily moved, for he is sufficiently one of us to respect the Square's traditions.