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Updated: June 17, 2025
The Kaisergarten is the rendezvous of the bourgeoisie, the heaven of hoi polloi rotund merchants with walrus moustachios, dapper young clerks with flowing ties, high-chokered soldiers, their boots polished into ebony mirrors, fat-jowled maidens in rainbow garb.... There is lovemaking under the Linden trees, beer drinking on the midway, schnitzel eating in the restaurants.
Schnitzel showed no resentment. "Go ashore and look for yourself," he muttered. "Don't believe me. Ask Rojas. Ask the first man you meet." He shivered, and shrugged his shoulders. "I tell you, the walls are damp, like sweat."
That's what William T. Scott did, an' up in New York people think 'Billy' Scott is a fine man. I seen him at the Horse Show sitting in a box, bowing to everybody, with his wife sitting beside him, all hung out with pearls. An' that was only a month after I'd seen Rojas in that sewer where Scott put him." "Schnitzel," I laughed, "you certainly are a magnificent liar."
From below came the steady throb of the engines, and from outside the whisper of the waves and of the wind through the cordage. A barefooted sailor pattered by to the bridge. Schnitzel bent toward me, and with his hand pointed to his throat. "I've got papers on me that's worth a million to a certain party," he whispered. "You understand, my notes in cipher." He scowled with intense mystery.
I disbelieved him, but there came a sudden nasty doubt. "Curtis, who managed the company's plant at Barcelona, died of yellow-fever," I said, "and was buried the same day." For some time Schnitzel glowered uncertainly at the bulkhead. "Did you know him?" he asked. "When I was in the legation I knew him well," I said. "So did I," said Schnitzel. "He wasn't murdered. He murdered himself.
Immediately after my return to the Hotel Venezuela Schnitzel excused himself, and half an hour later returned in triumph with the cable operator and ordered lunch for both. They imbibed much sweet champagne. When we again were safe at sea, I said: "Schnitzel, how much did you pay that Frenchman to let you read my second cable?" Schnitzel's reply was prompt and complacent.
These four lads soon became "bunkies" at Camp Sterling, where they had their training. Later they took into their friendship one Franz Schnitzel, who, though possessed of a German name, was, nevertheless, a loyal "United Stateser," as Iggy called it. Franz had a hard time, at first, convincing people of his loyalty, and once he was accused of a black crime, but later he was proved innocent.
It was the first time I had seen Schnitzel show emotion, and I was moved to preach. "Why don't you quit?" I said. "You had an A1 job as a stenographer. Why don't you go back to it?" "Maybe, some day. But it's great being your own boss. If I was a stenographer, I wouldn't be helping you send in a report to the State Department, would I? No, this job is all right.
"I don't care whether he's a rah-rah boy or not," said Schnitzel, "I know that's what he did when he was up the Orinoco after orchids, and if the tribe had ever caught him they'd have crucified him. And I know this, too: he made forty thousand dollars out of the Nitrate Company on a ten-thousand-dollar job. And I know it, because he beefed to me about it himself, because it wasn't big enough."
Between pulls he would suspire deeply, so as to get the full assistance of the Climate. Sometimes he would feel that he was being benefitted. Often at 9 P. M., before taking his final Schnitzel and passing gently into a state of Coma, he would get ready to renounce allegiance to all three of the Political Parties in the U. S. A. and grow one of those U-Shaped Mustaches.
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