“Yes, Herr Consul,” brought out Carl Smolt, chewing violently. “The thing is—ower—it’s a soart o’—we’re makkin’ a rivolution.”
“What kind of nonsense is that, then?”
“Lord, Herr Consul, ye knaw what that is. We’re not satisfied wi’ things as they be. We demand another order o’ things; tain’t any more’n that—that’s what it is.”
“Now, listen, Carl Smolt and the rest of you. Whoever’s got any sense will go home and not bother himself over any revolutions, disturbing the regular order of things—”
“The sacred order,” interrupted Herr Gosch dramatically.
“The regular order, I say,” finished the Consul. “Why, even the lamps aren’t lighted. That’s going too far with the revolution.”
Carl Smolt had swallowed his mouthful by now, and, with the people at his back, stood his ground and made some objections.
“Well, Herr Consul, ye may say that. But we’re only agin the principle of the voate—”
“God in heaven, you ninny,” shouted the Consul, forgetting, in his excitement, to speak dialect. “You’re talking the sheerest nonsense—”
“Lord, Herr Consul,” said Carl Smolt, somewhat abashed, “thet’s oall as it is. Rivolution it has to be. Ther’s rivolution iverywheer, in Berlin, in Paris—”