ONE bitter cold day in January, four years ago, I had occasion to wait for a street-car in Chicago, on one of those aside lines where the cars pass but once in every ten or fifteen minutes. There was a German lager-bier saloon close by, and I entered it for shelter. As I stood by the stove, enjoying the grateful warmth, I observed near me a young man, in very seedy apparel, engaged in reading the Staats-Zeitung. Something in the air of the young man awakened my curiosity, and led me to address him. Although reading a German newspaper, he was not a German in appearance, and I put to him the question, "Sind Sie Deutsch?" by way of experiment.
"No, sir," he replied, "I am not German, but I speak and read the language."
I drew a chair near him, as he laid aside the newspaper, with the air of one willing to enter into conversation.
"Where did you pick up your German?" I asked.
"I picked it up," said the young man, with an air of some pride in the statement, "where I picked up my Latin and Greek,—at college."
At this I ran my eye over him curiously. He had not the appearance of a scholar.
"You look surprised," said he. "Despite my present appearance, and the place you find me in, I am a graduate; but at present, I am under a cloud."
"So I should imagine."
I also imagined that the young man was probably shiftless, and no doubt addicted to liquor; but I did not say so. As if he read my thoughts, he spoke again:
"People are always ready to think ill of a seedy man, I suppose. Probably you think me a good-for-nothing, and would give me some valuable advice about hanging around beer-saloons; but the fact is, I am an employé of this establishment."