"Bitte zum speisen!" called Marie gayly from her brick stove, and
the men trooped out to the kitchen.
The supper was spread on the table, with the pitcher of beer in
the center. There were Swiss cheese and cold ham and rolls, and
above all sausages and mustard. Peter drank a great deal of beer,
as did the others, and sang German songs with a frightful accent
and much vigor and sentiment, as also did the others.
Then he went back to the cold room in the Pension Schwarz, and
told himself he was a fool to live alone when one could live like
a prince for the same sum properly laid out. He dropped into the
hollow center of his bed, where his big figure fitted as
comfortably as though it lay in a washtub, and before his eyes
there came a vision of Stewart's flat and the slippers by the
fire--which was eminently human.
However, a moment later he yawned, and said aloud, with
considerable vigor, that he'd be damned if he would--which was
eminently Peter Byrne. Almost immediately, with the bed
coverings, augmented by his overcoat, drawn snug to his chin, and
the better necktie swinging from the gasjet in the air from the
opened window, Peter was asleep. For four hours he had entirely
forgotten Harmony.
CHAPTER V
The peace of a gray Sunday morning hung like a cloud over the
little Pension Schwarz. In the kitchen the elderly maid, with a
shawl over her shoulders and stiffened fingers, made the fire,
while in the dining-room the little chambermaid cut butter and
divided it sparingly among a dozen breakfast trays--on each tray
two hard rolls, a butter pat, a plate, a cup.
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