It appeared to be a table of
importance, for the high-backed bench that ran along one
side was upholstered in worn red velvet, and every
newcomer paused a moment to nod or to say a word in
greeting. It was not of American politics that they
talked, but of the politics of Austria and Hungary.
Finally the argument resolved itself into a duel of words
between a handsome, red-faced German whose rosy skin
seemed to take on a deeper tone in contrast to the
whiteness of his hair and mustache, and a swarthy young
fellow whose thick spectacles and heavy mane of black
hair gave him the look of a caricature out of an
illustrated German weekly. The red-faced man argued
loudly, with much rapping of bare knuckles on the table
top. But the dark man spoke seldom, and softly, with a
little twisted half-smile on his lips; and whenever he
spoke the red-faced man grew redder, and there came a
huge laugh from the others who sat listening.
"Say, wouldn't it curdle your English?" Blackie
laughed.
Solemnly I turned to him. "Blackie Griffith,
these people do not even realize that there is anything
unusual about this."
"Sure not; that's the beauty of it. They don't need
to make no artificial atmosphere for this place; it just
grows wild, like dandelions.
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