THE HALBERDIER OF THE LITTLE RHEINSCHLOSS
I go sometimes into the /Bierhalle/ and restaurant called Old Munich.
Not long ago it was a resort of interesting Bohemians, but now only artists and musicians and literary folk frequent it.But the Pilsner is yet good, and I take some diversion from the conversation of Waiter No.18.
For many years the customers of Old Munich have accepted the place as a faithful copy from the ancient German town.The big hall with its smoky rafters, rows of imported steins, portrait of Goethe, and verses painted on the walls--translated into German from the original of the Cincinnati poets--seems atmospherically correct when viewed through the bottom of a glass.
But not long ago the proprietors added the room above, called it the Little Rheinschloss, and built in a stairway.Up there was an imitation stone parapet, ivy-covered, and the walls were painted to represent depth and distance, with the Rhine winding at the base of the vineyarded slopes, and the castle of Ehrenbreitstein looming directly opposite the entrance.Of course there were tables and chairs; and you could have beer and food brought you, as you naturally would on the top of a castle on the Rhine.
I went into Old Munich one afternoon when there were few customers, and sat at my usual table near the stairway.I was shocked and almost displeased to perceive that the glass cigar-case by the orchestra stand had been smashed to smithereens.I did not like things to happen in Old Munich.Nothing had ever happened there before.
Waiter No.18 came and breathed on my neck.I was his by right of discovery.Eighteen's brain was built like a corral.It was full of ideas which, when he opened the gate, came huddling out like a flock of sheep that might get together afterward or might not.I did not shine as a shepherd.As a type Eighteen fitted nowhere.I did not find out if he had a nationality, family, creed, grievance, hobby, soul, preference, home, or vote.He only came always to my table and, as long as his leisure would permit, let words flutter from him like swallows leaving a barn at daylight.
"How did the cigar-case come to be broken, Eighteen?" I asked, with a certain feeling of personal grievance.
"I can tell you about that, sir," said he, resting his foot on the chair next to mine."Did you ever have anybody hand you a double handful of good luck while both your hands were full of bad luck, and stop to notice how your fingers behaved?"
"No riddles, Eighteen," said I."Leave out palmistry and manicuring."
"You remember," said Eighteen, "the guy in the hammered brass Prince Albert and the oroide gold pants and the amalgamated copper hat, that carried the combination meat-axe, ice-pick, and liberty-pole, and used to stand on the first landing as you go up to the Little Rindslosh."
"Why, yes," said I."The halberdier.I never noticed him particularly.
I remember he thought he was only a suit of armour.He had a perfect poise."
"He had more than that," said Eighteen."He was me friend.He was an advertisement.The boss hired him to stand on the stairs for a kind of scenery to show there was something doing in the has-been line upstairs.What did you call him--a what kind of beer?"
"A halberdier," said I."That was an ancient man-at-arms of many hundred years ago."
"Some mistake," said Eighteen."This one wasn't that old.He wasn't over twenty-three or four.
"It was the boss's idea, rigging a man up in an ante-bellum suit of tinware and standing him on the landing of the slosh.He bought the goods at a Fourth Avenue antique store, and hung a sign-out: 'Able-
bodied hal--halberdier wanted.Costume furnished.'
"The same morning a young man with wrecked good clothes and a hungry look comes in, bringing the sign with him.I was filling the mustard-
pots at my station.
"'I'm it,' says he, 'whatever it is.But I never halberdiered in a restaurant.Put me on.Is it a masquerade?'
"'I hear talk in the kitchen of a fishball,' says I.
"'Bully for you, Eighteen,' says he.'You and I'll get on.Show me the boss's desk.'
"Well, the boss tries the Harveyized pajamas on him, and they fitted him like the scales on a baked redsnapper, and he gets the job.You've seen what it is--he stood straight up in the corner of the first landing with his halberd to his shoulder, looking right ahead and guarding the Portugals of the castle.The boss is nutty about having the true Old-World flavour to his joint.'Halberdiers goes with Rindsloshes,' says he, 'just as rats goes with rathskellers and white cotton stockings with Tyrolean villages.' The boss is a kind of a antiologist, and is all posted up on data and such information.
"From 8 P.M.to two in the morning was the halberdier's hours.He got two meals with us help and a dollar an night.I eat with him at the table.He liked me.He never told his name.He was travelling impromptu, like kings, I guess.The first time at supper I says to him: 'Have some more of the spuds, Mr.Frelinghuysen.' 'Oh, don't be so formal and offish, Eighteen,' says he.'Call me Hal--that's short for halberdier.' 'Oh, don't think I wanted to pry for names,' says I.
'I know all about the dizzy fall from wealth and greatness.We've got a count washing dishes in the kitchen; and the third bartender used to be a Pullman conductor.And they /work/, Sir Percival,' says I, sarcastic.
"'Eighteen,' says he, 'as a friendly devil in a cabbage-scented hell, would you mind cutting up this piece of steak for me? I don't say that it's got more muscle than I have, but--' And then he shows me the insides of his hands.They was blistered and cut and corned and swelled up till they looked like a couple of flank steaks criss-
crossed with a knife--the kind the butchers hide and take home, knowing what is the best.
"'Shoveling coal,' says he, 'and piling bricks and loading drays.But they gave out, and I had to resign.I was born for a halberdier, and I've been educated for twenty-four years to fill the position.Now, quit knocking my profession, and pass along a lot more of that ham.
