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Updated: June 15, 2025
Then he finished his beer, rose, and proceeded toward the stairs leading to the rathskeller below. Down these he disappeared. An idea came to Carmichael. He called a waitress and asked her to bring a copy of that day's paper. Meantime he recovered the vintner's paper, and when he finally put the two together, it was a simple matter to replace the missing cutting.
At 11.45 a being entered the rathskeller. The first violin perceptibly flatted a C that should have been natural; the clarionet blew a bubble instead of a grace note; Miss Carrington giggled and the youth with parted hair swallowed an olive seed. Exquisitely and irreproachably rural was the new entry.
"Well, I don't suppose it is. But well, there was somethin' else. It seemed to me that afternoon at the Rathskeller that he and that chum of his had been drinkin'." "Drinking? Do you mean that they were intoxicated?" "No, not exactly that; but they had a couple of cocktails while I was there." "Is that all? Oh, dear me! Daniel, you are SO old-fashioned. Your ideas don't change a single mite.
"Er because er if I may speak plainly," drawled Average Jones, "I wouldn't risk a woman's name with a gang of blackmailers." "You've got your nerve," retorted the stranger. The keen eyes, flattening almost to slits, fixed on the impassive face of the other. "Well, I'll go you," he decided, after a moment. His glance swept the range of vision and settled upon a rathskeller sign.
I suppose, since you've been converted to the town, that your idea of rural sport is to have a little whirl between bicycle cops in Central Park and then a mug of sticky ale in some stuffy rathskeller under a fan that can't stir up as many revolutions in a week as Nicaragua can in a day." "We'll begin with the spin through the Park, anyhow," I said.
The author had hewn as close to realism as his too clever lines would permit. There had been a wealth of Blister's own vernacular used on the stage during the evening, and I had rather enjoyed it all. But Blister, it was now evident, had been disappointed. "You didn't like it?" I said tentatively, as I steered him toward the blazing word "Rathskeller," a block down the street.
Uncle Buzz's message in the Rathskeller the night before had been cryptic to the others but plain enough to Joe. Uncle Buzz was in trouble again. Trial balance, maybe. There was no telling. As Joe finished footing up a long column of figures he smiled. It meant another trip to Bloomfield on Saturday. And Saturday was the day after to-morrow. Thus the day wore on.
For when a decent Married Man does start out to find something different from the calm Joys of connubing in a Side Street, he is the Village Limit. Husband had the whole Shop to himself. He employed a Senegambian who was a good two-handed Worker with the Corkscrew. Then he had $40 worth of Dutch Lunch sent in from the Rathskeller and arranged the Stacks of Reds, Whites, and Blues.
He pushed on a few Buttons and blew into several snaky Tubes and put the whole Shop on the Jump to find Mr. Byrd. The latter happened to be in a Rathskeller not far away. When he heard that there was Work to be done in his Department he brushed away the Crumbs and Hot-Footed up to see the Boss. In presenting Mr. Byrd to the Country Customer the Head of the Concern laid it on with a Shovel.
"That's strange, ain't it?" he said in a tone of grave surprise. "I was just thinkin' that myself." Then, his cigar smoked to the bitter end, he, too, rose, and, declining the invitations of the stout man and his friends to have something "because he had earned it," he walked out of the Rathskeller and took the elevator to the third floor.
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