After the third large drink, Dippel became helpless and maudlin and began to overflow with generous sentiments. ``I love you, Finkelstern, ol' man,'' he declared tearfully. ``They say you're a dead beat, but wha' d'I care ?''
``Finkelstern,'' affecting drunkenness, shed tears on Dippel's shoulder, denied that he was a ``beat'' and swore that he loved Dippel like a brother. ``You're my frien','' he said. ``I know you'd trust me to any amount.''
Dippel took from his trousers pocket a roll of bills several inches thick. Feuerstein thrilled and his eyes grew eloquent as he noted tens and twenties and at least one fifty. Slowly, and with exaggerated care, Dippel drew off a ten. ``There y'are, ol' dead beat,'' he said. ``I'll stake you a ten. Lots more where that came from--soda-fountain counter's reg'lar gol' mine.''
In taking off the ten, he dropped a twenty. It fluttered to the floor and the soldier of fortune, the scorner of toil and toilers, slid his foot over it as swiftly and naturally as a true aristocrat always covers an opportunity to get something somebody else has earned. He put the ten in his pocket, when Dippel's eyes closed he stooped and retrieved the twenty with stealth--and skill. When the twenty was hidden, and the small but typical operation in high finance was complete, he shook Dippel. ``I say, old man,'' he said, ``hadn't you better let me keep your money for you? I'm afraid you'll lose it.''
Dippel slowly unclosed one eye and gave him a look of glassy cunning. He again drew the roll from his pocket, and, clasping it tightly in his fist, waved it under Feuerstein's nose. As he did it, he vented a drunken chuckle. ``Soda fountain's gol' mine, Fishenspiel,'' he said thickly. ``No, you don't! I can watch my own roll.'' He winked and chuckled.
``Sorry to disappoint you, Fishy,'' he went on, with a leer.
Then he took off another ten and handed it to Feuerstein. ``Good fel', Fishy,'' he mumbled, ``'f y' are a dead beat.''
Feuerstein added the ten to the thirty and ordered more whisky.
Dippel tried to doze, but he would not permit it. ``He mustn't sleep any of it off,'' he thought.
When the whisky came Dippel shook himself together and started up. ``G'-night,'' he said, trying to stand, look and talk straight. ``Don't f'rget, y'owe me ten dollarses--no, two ten dollarses.''
``Oh, sit down,'' coaxed Feuerstein, taking him by the arm.
``It's early yet.''
Dippel shook him off with much dignity. ``Don' touch me!'' he growled. ``I know what I'm 'bout. I'm goin' home.'' Then to himself, but aloud: ``Dippy, you're too full f'r utterance--you mus' shake this beat.'' Again to Feuerstein:
``G'night, Mr. Funkelshine--g'night. Sit there till I'm gone.''
Feuerstein rose to follow and Dippel struck at him. The waiter seized each by the shoulder and flung them through the swinging doors. Dippel fell in a heap on the sidewalk, but Feuerstein succeeded in keeping to his feet. He went to the assistance of Dippel.
``Don't touch me,'' shouted Dippel.
``Police! Police!''
Feuerstein looked fearfully round, gave Dippel a kick and hurried away. When he glanced back from a safe distance Dippel was waving to and fro on his wobbling legs, talking to a cabman.
``Close-fisted devil,'' muttered Feuerstein. ``He couldn't forget his money even when he was drunk. What good is money to a brute like him?'' And he gave a sniff of contempt for the vulgarity and meanness of Dippel and his kind.
Early the next morning he established a modus vivendi with his landlady by giving her ten dollars on account. He had an elaborate breakfast at Terrace Garden and went to Bloomingdale's, arriving at eleven precisely. Lena Ganser was already there, pretending to shop at a counter in full view of the appointed place. They went to Terrace Garden and sat in the Stube. He at once opened up his sudden romantic passion. ``All night I have walked the streets,'' he said, ``dreaming of you.'' When he had fully informed her of the state of his love-maddened mind toward her, he went on to his most congenial topic--himself.
``You have heard of the Freiherr von Feuerstein, the great soldier?'' he asked her.
Lena had never heard of him. But she did not know who was German Emperor or even who was President of the United States. She, therefore, had to be extremely cautious. She nodded assent.
``My uncle,'' said Feuerstein impressively. His eyes became reflective. ``Strange!'' he exclaimed in tender accents, soliloquizing-- ``strange where romance will lead us. Instead of remaining at home, in ease and luxury, here am I--an actor--a wanderer --roaming the earth in search of the heart that Heaven intended should be wedded to mine.'' He fixed his gaze upon Lena's fat face with the expression that had made Hilda's soul fall down and worship. ``And--I have found it!'' He drew in and expelled a vast breath. ``At last! My soul is at rest.''
Lena tried to look serious in imitation of him, but that was not her way of expressing emotion. She made a brief struggle, then collapsed into her own mode--a vain, delighted, giggling laugh.
``Why do you smile?'' he asked sternly. He revolted from this discord to his symphony.
She sobered with a frightened, deprecating look. ``Don't mind me,'' she pleaded. ``Pa says I'm a fool. I was laughing because I'm happy. You're such a sweet, romantic dream of a man.''
Feuerstein was not particular either as to the quality or as to the source of his vanity-food. He accepted Lena's offering with a condescending nod and smile. They talked, or, rather, he talked and she listened and giggled until lunch time. As the room began to fill, they left and he walked home with her.
``You can come in,'' she said. ``Pa won't be home to lunch to-day and ma lets me do as I please.''
