I found him gazing intently at the framed Bill of Fare by the main door
of the Restaurant Furioso, where I had often lunched at his table.
"Hullo, Fritz!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing out here? Have you
been sacked?"
"Ach, Mein Herr," he answered, "there has of the German waiters what
you call an up-round been. I prove myself Swiss; I invoke the memory
of WILHELM TELL and the Alpine Club, but the proprietor say that he
take no risk, and out I go. But no matter. I myself was myself to have
sacked, but he spoke too quick."
I said I was sorry and asked whether he meant to go back to
Switzerland. Fritz winked and tapped his breast pocket.
"Perhaps," he said. "I am rich, I have money. But first I buy new
clothes and then I lunch at my own table at the Furioso."
"Come where you can tell me all about it," said I, scenting a story,
and he led me to a quiet tavern in a back street.
"Beer," was his answer to my first question. "English beer. I have done
with Germany."
"I thought you said you were Swiss," I remarked.
"That is so," he replied; "but I have served Germany, and, ach! she
have the thankless tooth of the serpent's child. I have read your
SHAKSPEARE. But you shall know all," he went on. "Already the police
know all, and they laugh in my face. They call me fool, but I have
money, and the KAISER has missed his chance.
"Listen, Mein Herr! I have been one of STEINHAUER'S spies. He is the
Master Spy and came over to England with the KAISER, and he stayed, I
am told, at Buckingham Palace. But STEINHAUER is a fool, and I tell
him so in my last letter. One day, a month ago, a gentleman dine at my
table: he speak good English and wear London clothes, but I suspect
him German, and when I see him eat I know. Some English officers also
dine in the room, and he look at them--ach! as there were sour apples
in his stomach. So I speak in German to Hans at the next table, and,
when I give the bill, the gentleman point out a too-much charge for the
butter he have not; I bend my head to read, and he whisper in my ear in
German."
"Ah!" I said. "I can guess the next part about the secret meeting and
the false name and so on. But tell me how the KAISER missed his chance."
"Well," he resumed, "I become a spy. My duty was to listen to English
officers who dine at the Furioso, and to send reports to STEINHAUER
through a cutter of hairs in Soho, who call himself Ephraim Smiley,
but his right name is Johann Schnitzelbrod. One night three young
officers dine at my table and talk much about the British Army. One
say the Arsenal is weak, another that the Rangers cannot shoot for
nuts, and the third that the Palace is sure to go down next Saturday.
'Aha!' I say to myself, 'the Army is bad, and they fear Zeppelins or
revolution.' STEINHAUER will know which, and I shall get the five-pound
note. So I send my report; but STEINHAUER is stupid and the five-pound
note come not, and I say, 'Better luck on the following occasion.'
"A week later a cavalry officer dine at my table alone, and he talk
to me for company. He ask me if I follow horses, and I say, 'Yes,
formerly, when they drew the bus.' Then he laugh, and ask whether I
ever have what he call a flutter on a dead snip. I scratch my head,
but Hans interpret, and so, as you English say, I tumble. I tell him
I would like, but for me the dead snip have not yet deceased. He say,
'Put all your tips on Mutton Chop for the Cookingham Stakes,' and he
give me a shilling. Presently Hans tell me that Mutton Chop is not an
English food, but a horse. He say he know of what he call a bookie who
is not a Welshman, and if Mutton Chop win, I multiply my savings one
hundert times.
"So I write to STEINHAUER in haste: he must advise the KAISER to put
one hundred million marks on Mutton Chop, and the war will be paid for
and something left over for poor Fritz. Then I take my savings from the
bank and pawn my clothes, and much money goes to the bookie to back
Mutton Chop. Well, the good Mutton Chop roll home--that is what Hans
call it, and he is a racing-instructed; he has been waiter at Ascot,
and once he go to see the City and South London. The same day come a
letter from STEINHAUER that I am a _Schweinkopf_, and he shall advise
the KAISER no such thing; and he dismiss me with notting.
"But I go to the bookie, who laugh and pay me one tausend pound.
He did not care; he make ten tausend from the many fools who back
German Sausage. So I write one last letter to STEINHAUER and say,
'_Schweinkopf_ yourself! Stew in your own _Sauerkraut_!' He get another
spy to denounce me, but I find the police have opened all my letters,
and they laugh in my face. But the superintendent say, 'Much obliged,
Herr Fritz! Thanks to you, I also make my _bitchen_ on Mutton Chop.
When you get another dead snip, pass it on.'"
Then I ordered Fritz another English beer, and gave him an introduction
to my own tailor.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE HARDSHIPS OF HOME.
_Young Officer_ (_back from the trenches, on ninety-six hours' leave_).
"UGH! THIS IS HORRIBLE--HAVING TO TAKE ALL YOUR CLOTHES OFF AND GET
BETWEEN COLD SHEETS!"]
* * * * *