Stenzenberger smiled broadly on her, and winked. “How d' do, Madge,” he said. “Can't you give us a little something with a smile in it,—one o' your smiles maybe now?”
She was a tall woman, with a full figure and snapping eyes,—attractive, in spite of a crow's-foot wrinkle or so. She returned the smile, wearily, and said, “I 'll call Joe, Mr. Stenzenberger.”
“You needn't do that now, Madge. Draw it with those pretty hands of yours, there's a dear.”
So she came in behind the bar, wiping her hands on her apron, and quietly awaited their orders.
“What 'll it be, boys?”
Dick suggested a glass of beer, but Henry smiled and shook his head. “You might make it ginger ale for me.”
“I don't know what to do with that cousin of yours,” said Stenzenberger to Dick. “He's a queer one. I don't like to trust a man that's got no vices. What are your vices, anyhow, Smiley?”
Henry smiled again. “Ask Dick, there. He ought to know all about me.”
Stenzenberger looked from one to the other; then he raised his foaming glass, and with a “Prosit” and a stiff German nod, he put it down at a gulp.
“Been reading about the revenue case?” Henry asked of his superior.