Philip lounged down into a chair, searching in his pocket for pipe and tobacco.
Without—for the room overlooked the back yard—they could hear Bismarck and his father. The former was crying, while his parent was expostulating with him in mixed German and English, but the sounds of grief continued with no show of abatement.
“He has a vile temper,” Franz said, “when he is angry. The little boys are not bad as such little beasts go.”
“I think them amusing,” Philip responded. “The way in which a child profits by the presence of guests to gorge himself on dainties is a fair example of uncontrolled human nature.”
Just then they heard the patter of small feet beyond the door and a faint voice saying: “I want in!”
It was Bismarck, and he waited for no answer, but inserted himself ingratiatingly into the room, presenting a countenance whereon grief and gravy had combined with disastrous results.
He was still sobbing but managed to gasp:
“I ain't hurt. It ain't that—but I do hate to have a darned old foreigner bang me about—it hurts my feelings!”
And he made a dive into Franz's lap, burying his head against his breast where for exactly three minutes he remained with wriggling legs a victim of keen despair.
“There is Americanism for you with a vengeance, Franz,” said Philip.