We were just
leaving, after having listened for some hours to a Hungarian band
playing waltz tunes and an assemblage of natives drinking beer,
when the sounds of a dispute at the booth where wraps were checked
turned our faces in that direction. In a thick and plushy voice
a short square person of a highly vulgar aspect was arguing with
the young woman who had charge of the check room. Judging by his
tones, you would have said that the nap of his tongue was at least
a quarter of an inch long; and he punctuated his remarks with
hiccoughs. It seemed that his excitement had to do with the
disappearance of a neck-muffler. From argument he progressed
rapidly to threats and the pounding of a fist upon the counter.
Drawing nigh, I observed that he wore a very high hat and a very
short sack coat; that his waistcoat was of a combustible plaid
pattern with gaiters to match; that he had taken his fingers many
times to the jeweler, but not once to the manicure; that he was
beautifully jingled and alcoholically boastful of his native land
and that--a crowning touch--he wore flaring from an upper pocket
of his coat a silk handkerchief woven in the design and colors of
his country's flag. But, praises be, it was not our flag that he
wore thus. It was the Union Jack. As we passed out into the damp
Viennese midnight he was loudly proclaiming that he "Was'h Bri'sh
subjesch," and that unless something was done mighty quick, would
complain to "Is Majeshy's rep(hic)shenativ' ver' firsch thing 'n
morn'.
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