“Why not? May be it isn’t good enough for you?”
“Oh, yes! oh, yes!” replied the banker hastily. “You see, Mr. Shund”—
“That’s good! You call me Shund,” interrupted the fellow with a coarse laugh. “My name isn’t Shund—my name is Koenig—yes, Koenig—with all due respect to you.”
“Well, Mr. Koenig—you see, Mr. Koenig, we decline drinking election beer because we are not entitled to it—we do not belong to this place.”
“Ah, yes—well, that’s honest!” lauded Koenig. “Being that you are a couple of honest fellows, you must partake of some of the good things of our feast. I say, Kate,” cried he to the female waiter, “bring these gentlemen some of the election sausages.”
Greifmann, perceiving that Seraphin was about putting in a protest, nudged him.
“What feast are you celebrating to-day?” inquired the banker.
“That I will explain to you. We are to have an election here to-morrow; these men on the ticket, you see, are to be elected.” And he drew forth one of Spitzkopf’s tickets. “Every one of us has received a ticket like this, and we are all going to vote according to the ticket—of course, you know, we don’t do it for nothing. To-day and to-morrow, what we eat and drink is free of charge. And if Satan’s own grandmother were on the ticket, I would vote for her.”
“The first one on the list is Mr. Hans Shund. What sort of a man is he?” asked Seraphin. “No doubt he is the most honorable and most respectable man in the place!”
“Ha! ha! that’s funny! The most honorable man in the place! Really you make me laugh. Never mind, however, I don’t mean to be impolite. You are a stranger hereabout, and cannot, of course, be expected to know anything of it. Shund, you see, was formerly—that, is a couple of days ago—Shund was a man of whom nobody knew any good. For my part, I wouldn’t just like to be sticking in Shund’s hide. Well, that’s the way things are: you know it won’t do to babble it all just as it is. But you understand me. To make a long story short, since day before yesterday Shund is the honestest man in the world. Our men of money have made him that, you know,” giving a sly wink. “What the men of money do, is well done, of course, for the proverb says, ‘Whose bread I eat, his song I sing.’”