accomplished that purpose; for, with the well-thumbed cards lying
between them and three half-emptied steins of beer on the table,
Ersten was opposite a pink-faced man with curly gray hair, whose
clothes sat upon his slightly portly person with fashion-plate
precision. It was this very same suit about which Ersten was talking
when Johnny entered.

"Na, Kurzerhosen," he said with a trace of pathos in his guttural
voice, "when you die we have no more suits of clothes like that."

"I thank you," returned the flexible soft voice of Kurzerhosen. "It
is like the work you make in your ladies' garments, Ersten. When you
die we shall have no more good walking clothes for our womenfolks."

"And when Schoppenvoll dies we have no more good wine," declared
Ersten with conviction and a wave of his hand as Schoppenvoll
approached them with an inordinately long-necked bottle, balancing
it carefully on its side.

Johnny had drawn near the table now, but no one saw him, for this
moment was one of deep gravity. Schoppenvoll, a tall, straight-
backed man with the dignity of a major, a waving gray pompadour, and
a clean-cut face that might have belonged to a Beethoven, set down
the tray at the very edge of the table and slid it gently into
place. An overgrown fat boy, with his sleeves rolled to his
shoulders, brought three shining glasses, three bottles of Glanzen
Wasser and a corkscrew.

It was at this most inopportune time that Johnny Gamble spoke.