“So,” says the inspector, stepping authoritatively forward, “finishing pants, eh? All three of you? Got a license?”
“Vot?” inquires the pale Hungarian, ceasing his labor.
“Where is your license—your paper? Haven’t you got a paper?”
The Hungarian, who has not been in this form of work long enough to know the rules, puts his elbows on the table and gazes nervously into the newcomer’s face. What is this now that the gentleman wants? His wife looks her own inquiry and speaks of it to her daughter.
“What is it he wants?” says the father to the child.
“It is a paper,” returns the daughter in Hungarian. “He says we must have a license.”
“Paper?” repeats the Hungarian, looking up and shaking his head in the negative. “No.”
“Oh, so you haven’t got a license then? I thought so. Who are you working for?”
The father stares at the child. Seeing that he does not understand, the inspector goes on: “The boss, the boss! What boss gave you these pants to finish?”
“Oh,” returns the little girl, who understands somewhat better than the rest, “the boss, yes. He wants to know what boss gave us these pants.” This last in a foreign tongue to her father.