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 was 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 a 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 a 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. I'm holding the closing exercises,' says he, 'of a
forty-eight-hour fast.'
"The second night he was on the job he walks down from his corner to
the cigar-case and calls for cigarettes. The customers at the tables
all snicker out loud to show their acquaintance with history. The
boss is on.
"'An'--let's see--oh, yes--'An anachronism,' says the boss.
'Cigarettes was not made at the time when halberdiers was invented.'
"'The ones you sell was,' says Sir Percival. 'Caporal wins from
chronology by the length of a cork tip.' So he gets 'em and lights
one, and puts the box in his brass helmet, and goes back to
patrolling the Rindslosh.
"He made a big hit, 'specially with the ladies. Some of 'em would
poke him with their fingers to see if he was real or only a kind of
a stuffed figure like they burn in elegy. And when he'd move they'd
squeak, and make eyes at him as they went up to the slosh. He looked
fine in his halberdashery. He slept at $2 a week in a hall-room on
Third Avenue. He invited me up there one night. He had a little book
on the washstand that he read instead of shopping in the saloons
after hours. 'I'm on to that,' says I, 'from reading about it in
novels. All the heroes on the bum carry the little book. It's either
Tantalus or Liver or Horace, and its printed in Latin, and you're a
college man. And I wouldn't be surprised,' says I, 'if you wasn't
educated, too.' But it was only the batting averages of the League
for the last ten years.
"One night, about half past eleven, there comes in a party of these
high-rollers that are always hunting up new places to eat in and
poke fun at. There was a swell girl in a 40 H.-P. auto tan coat and
veil, and a fat old man with white side-whiskers, and a young chap
that couldn't keep his feet off the tail of the girl's coat, and an
oldish lady that looked upon life as immoral and unnecessary. 'How
perfectly delightful,' they says, 'to sup in a slosh.' Up the stairs
they go; and in half a minute back down comes the girl, her skirts
swishing like the waves on the beach. She stops on the landing and
looks our halberdier in the eye.
"'You!' she says, with a smile that reminded me of lemon sherbet. I
was waiting up-stairs in the slosh, then, and I was right down here
by the door, putting some vinegar and cayenne into an empty bottle
of tabasco, and I heard all they said.
"'It,' says Sir Percival, without moving. 'I'm only local colour.
Are my hauberk, helmet, and halberd on straight?'
"'Is there an explanation to this?' says she. 'Is it a practical
joke such as men play in those Griddle-cake and Lamb Clubs? I'm
afraid I don't see the point. I heard, vaguely, that you were away.
For three months I--we have not seen you or heard from you.'
"'I'm halberdiering for my living,' says the stature. 'I'm working,'
says he. 'I don't suppose you know what work means.'
"'Have you--have you lost your money?' she asks.
"Sir Percival studies a minute.
"'I am poorer,' says he, 'than the poorest sandwich man on the
streets--if I don't earn my living.'
"'You call this work?' says she. 'I thought a man worked with his
hands or his head instead of becoming a mountebank.'
"'The calling of a halberdier,' says he, 'is an ancient and
honourable one. Sometimes,' says he, 'the man-at-arms at the door
has saved the castle while the plumed knights were cake-walking in
the banquet-halls above.'
"'I see you're not ashamed,' says she, 'of your peculiar tastes. I
wonder, though, that the manhood I used to think I saw in you didn't
prompt you to draw water or hew wood instead of publicly flaunting
your ignominy in this disgraceful masquerade.'
"Sir Percival kind of rattles his armour and says: 'Helen, will you
suspend sentence in this matter for just a little while? You don't
understand,' says he. 'I've got to hold this job down a little
longer.'
"'You like being a harlequin--or halberdier, as you call it?' says
she.
"'I wouldn't get thrown out of the job just now,' says he, with a
grin, 'to be appointed Minister to the Court of St. James's.'
"And then the 40-H.P. girl's eyes sparkled as hard as diamonds.
"'Very well,' says she. 'You shall have full run of your
serving-man's tastes this night.' And she swims over to the boss's
desk and gives him a smile that knocks the specks off his nose.
"'I think your Rindslosh,' says she, 'is as beautiful as a dream. It
is a little slice of the Old World set down in New York. We shall
have a nice supper up there; but if you will grant us one favour the
illusion will be perfect--give us your halberdier to wait on our
table.'
"That hits the boss's antiology hobby just right. 'Sure,' says he,
'dot vill be fine. Und der orchestra shall blay "Die Wacht am Rhein"
all der time.' And he goes over and tells the halberdier to go
upstairs and hustle the grub at the swells' table.
"'I'm on the job,' says Sir Percival, taking off his helmet and
hanging it on his halberd and leaning 'em in the corner. The girl
goes up and takes her seat and I see her jaw squared tight under her
smile. 'We're going to be waited on by a real halberdier,' says she,
'one who is proud of his profession. Isn't it sweet?'
"'Ripping,' says the swell young man. 'Much prefer a waiter,' says
the fat old gent. 'I hope he doesn't come from a cheap museum,' says
the old lady; 'he might have microbes in his costume.'
"Before he goes to the table, Sir Percival takes me by the arm.
'Eighteen,' he says, 'I've got to pull off this job without a
blunder. You coach me straight or I'll take that halberd and make
hash out of you.' And then he goes up to the table with his coat of
mail on and a napkin over his arm and waits for the order.
"'Why, it's Deering!' says the young swell. 'Hello, old man. What
the--'
"'Beg pardon, sir,' interrupts the halberdier, 'I'm waiting on the
table.'
"The old man looks at him grim, like a Boston bull. 'So, Deering,'
he says, 'you're at work yet.'
"'Yes, sir,' says Sir Percival, quiet and gentlemanly as I could
have been myself, 'for almost three months, now.' 'You haven't been
discharged during the time?' asks the old man. 'Not once, sir,' says
he, 'though I've had to change my work several times.'
"'Waiter,' orders the girl, short and sharp, 'another napkin.' He
brings her one, respectful.
"I never saw more devil, if I may say it, stirred up in a lady.
There was two bright red spots on her cheeks, and her eyes looked
exactly like a wildcat's I'd seen in the zoo. Her foot kept slapping
the floor all the time.
"'Waiter,' she orders, 'bring me filtered water without ice. Bring
me a footstool. Take away this empty salt-cellar.' She kept him on
the jump. She was sure giving the halberdier his.
"There wasn't but a few customers up in the slosh at that time, so
I hung out near the door so I could help Sir Percival serve.
"He got along fine with the olives and celery and the bluepoints.
They was easy. And then the consommé came up the dumb-waiter all in
one big silver tureen. Instead of serving it from the side-table he
picks it up between his hands and starts to the dining-table with
it. When nearly there he drops the tureen smash on the floor, and
the soup soaks all the lower part of that girl's swell silk dress.
"'Stupid--incompetent,' says she, giving him a look. 'Standing in a
corner with a halberd seems to be your mission in life.'
"'Pardon me, lady,' says he. 'It was just a little bit hotter than
blazes. I couldn't help it.'
"The old man pulls out a memorandum book and hunts in it. 'The 25th
of April, Deering,' says he. 'I know it,' says Sir Percival. 'And
ten minutes to twelve o'clock,' says the old man. 'By Jupiter! you
haven't won yet.' And he pounds the table with his fist and yells
to me: 'Waiter, call the manager at once--tell him to hurry here as
fast as he can.' I go after the boss, and old Brockmann hikes up to
the slosh on the jump.
"'I want this man discharged at once,' roars the old guy. 'Look
what he's done. Ruined my daughter's dress. It cost at least $600.
Discharge this awkward lout at once or I'll sue you for the price of
it.'
"'Dis is bad pizness,' says the boss. 'Six hundred dollars is much.
I reckon I vill haf to--'
"'Wait a minute, Herr Brockmann,' says Sir Percival, easy and
smiling. But he was worked up under his tin suitings; I could see
that. And then he made the finest, neatest little speech I ever
listened to. I can't give you the words, of course. He give the
millionaires a lovely roast in a sarcastic way, describing their
automobiles and opera-boxes and diamonds; and then he got around
to the working-classes and the kind of grub they eat and the long
hours they work--and all that sort of stuff--bunkum, of course. 'The
restless rich,' says he, 'never content with their luxuries, always
prowling among the haunts of the poor and humble, amusing themselves
with the imperfections and misfortunes of their fellow men and
women. And even here, Herr Brockmann,' he says, 'in this beautiful
Rindslosh, a grand and enlightening reproduction of Old World
history and architecture, they come to disturb its symmetry and
picturesqueness by demanding in their arrogance that the halberdier
of the castle wait upon their table! I have faithfuly and
conscientiously,' says he, 'performed my duties as a halberdier. I
know nothing of a waiter's duties. It was the insolent whim of these
transient, pampered aristocrats that I should be detailed to serve
them food. Must I be blamed--must I be deprived of the means of a
livelihood,' he goes on, 'on account of an accident that was the
result of their own presumption and haughtiness? But what hurts me
more than all,' says Sir Percival, 'is the desecration that has been
done to this splendid Rindslosh--the confiscation of its halberdier
to serve menially at the banquet board.'
"Even I could see that this stuff was piffle; but it caught the
boss.
"'Mein Gott,' says he, 'you vas right. Ein halberdier have not got
der right to dish up soup. Him I vill not discharge. Have anoder
waiter if you like, und let mein halberdier go back und stand mit
his halberd. But, gentlemen,' he says, pointing to the old man, 'you
go ahead and sue mit der dress. Sue me for $600 or $6,000. I stand
der suit.' And the boss puffs off down-stairs. Old Brockmann was an
all-right Dutchman.
"Just then the clock strikes twelve, and the old guy laughs loud.
'You win, Deering,' says he. 'And let me explain to all,' he goes
on. 'Some time ago Mr. Deering asked me for something that I did
not want to give him.' (I looks at the girl, and she turns as red
as a pickled beet.) 'I told him,' says the old guy, 'if he would
earn his own living for three months without being discharged for
incompetence, I would give him what he wanted. It seems that the
time was up at twelve o'clock to-night. I came near fetching you,
though, Deering, on that soup question,' says the old boy, standing
up and grabbing Sir Percival's hand.
"The halberdier lets out a yell and jumps three feet high.
"'Look out for those hands,' says he, and he holds 'em up. You never
saw such hands except on a labourer in a limestone quarry.
"'Heavens, boy!' says old side-whiskers, 'what have you been doing
to 'em?'
"'Oh,' says Sir Percival, 'little chores like hauling coal and
excavating rock till they went back on me. And when I couldn't hold
a pick or a whip I took up halberdiering to give 'em a rest. Tureens
full of hot soup don't seem to be a particularly soothing
treatment.'
"I would have bet on that girl. That high-tempered kind always go
as far the other way, according to my experience. She whizzes round
the table like a cyclone and catches both his hands in hers. 'Poor
hands--dear hands,' she sings out, and sheds tears on 'em and holds
'em close to her bosom. Well, sir, with all that Rindslosh scenery
it was just like a play. And the halberdier sits down at the table
at the girl's side, and I served the rest of the supper. And that
was about all, except that when they left he shed his hardware store
and went with 'em."