American [rising, and taking out his watch—blandly]. See here! If I don't get my eggs before this watch ticks twenty, there'll be another waiter in heaven.
Waiter [flying]. Komm' gleich!
American [seeking sympathy]. I'm gettin' kind of mad!
[The Englishman halves his newspaper and hands the advertisement half to his wife. The Baby wails. The Mother rocks it. The Dutch Youth stops eating and laughs. The German lights a cigarette. The Little Man sits motionless, nursing his hat. The Waiter comes flying back with the eggs and places them before the American.]
American [putting away his watch]. Good! I don't like trouble. How much? [He pays and eats. The Waiter stands a moment at the edge of the platform and passes his hand across his brow. The Little Man eyes him and speaks gently.]
Little Man. Herr Ober! [The Waiter turns.] Might I have a glass of beer?
Waiter. Yes, sare.
Little Man. Thank you very much. [The Waiter goes.]
American [pausing in the deglutition of his eggs—affably]. Pardon me, sir; I'd like to have you tell me why you called that little bit of a feller "Herr Ober." Reckon you would know what that means? Mr. Head Waiter.
Little Man. Yes, yes.