The Miracle.
Once upon a time there was one Herbert. The doctor being unwilling to
pass him so that there was no chance that he, in the words of the great
joke, would "march too," he had taken a situation as a waiter.
Englishmen (it is an axiom) do not make good waiters; nor was he an
exception. But he was conscientious and painstaking, although clumsy and
of short memory. Still, this was war-time, and Hans had gone to Germany
and might now be dead, and Fritz very properly was interned, and Josef
had sought Vienna once more, and Pasquale and Giuseppe had rejoined the
Italian flag, and the only foreigners left were a few nondescripts, very
volubly, indeed almost passionately, of Swiss nationality. In fact, if
this War has done nothing else it has at least established the fact that
the male population of Switzerland is far greater than any one had
supposed. Gallant little Switzerland!
So you see this was Herbert's chance, and the manager was glad to get
him; and Herbert, who, owing to the slump in games, had lost his job at
an athletic sports factory and had certain financial liabilities which
he had long since abandoned any hope of meeting, was glad to come. Only,
by infinite self-denial and sacrifice did he get together the necessary
capital for his clothes and the deposit demanded from waiters against
breakages, theft and so forth.
On his first day as one in charge of three or four tables Herbert made
some very serious mistakes. He was complained of for slowness, he turned
over a sauce-boat, he broke a glass, and he forgot to charge for the
cigar which the portly gentleman in the corner had taken after his
lunch. And this cigar was a half-crown Corona, for the portly gentleman
either had not yet grasped the full meaning of War economy or was
enjoying one of those periodical orgies to which even rigid economist
think themselves to be entitled.
Already Herbert had, like _Alnaschar_ in the Eastern tale, spent
imagination far more than he could make all the week, and this blow,
with the manager's abuse to serve as salt in the wound, sent him home in
misery. Nor was it as if the portly gentleman was a regular customer who
could be reminded of the error (little as such reminding is to the taste
of regular customers); on the contrary, he had never been known to visit
the restaurant before. You see, then, how unhappily Herbert viewed life
as he lay awake in his attic that night, and very heavy were his feet on
his way to work the next day, with an overcoat buttoned up to his neck
to hide his evening dress.
It was a cold rainy morning; the wind raged; and the very indifferent
soles of Herbert's boots absorbed moisture like blotting-paper.
Everything was against him. There was not a gleam of hope in the future,
not a ray of light. His companions were surly, the manager was venomous,
the bitter rain fell on. He was in debt and would get the sack.
It was then that the miracle happened. Suddenly Herbert, who was gazing
forlornly through the window at this disconsolate world, waiting, napkin
on his arm, to begin to wait, heard a voice saying, "I'm afraid you
forgot to charge me for my cigar yesterday." It was the portly
gentleman. Life was not utterly hopeless any more.
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[Illustration: _Old Lady_, "Ah, it'll take more than preaching
to make them Zeppelins repent!"]
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