I made my way towards
one of the clerks, and inquired in my best German if I could see Mr.
Hirsch.
The clerk--he was as weedy a looking youth as ever I had seen--pointed
with ink-stained finger to the benches which lined the room.
"You wait your turn," he said, and waved me away.
I took my place behind at least a dozen boys and young men, whose
avocation was unmistakable. Most of them were smoking either cigarettes
or a pipe, and most of them were untidy and unhealthy looking. They took
no notice of me, but sat watching the door to the inner room, which
opened and shut with wonderful rapidity. Every time one of their number
came out, another took his place. It came to my turn sooner than I could
have believed possible.
I found myself in a small office, untidy, barely furnished, and thick
with tobacco smoke. Its only occupant was a stout man, with flaxen hair
and beard, and mild blue eyes. He was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, and
smoking a very black cigar.
"Well?" he exclaimed, almost before I had crossed the threshold.
"My name is Paul Schmidt," I said, "and I should like to join the
Waiters' Union.
Pages:
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295