“A stein of Pilsener, Minna,” said Dave, “and for the boy, let’s see.  How would you like, a nice cold bottle of pop, Doctor?”

“Yes, sir,” said Wilbur.  “Strawberry pop.”

Herman looked up from his game, though in the midst of warm utterance in his native tongue at the immediate perverse fall of the cards.

“I guess you git the young one a big glass milk, mamma—­yes?  Better than pop for young ones.  Pop is belly wash.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Wilbur to Minna, though he would have preferred the pop by reason of its colour and its vivacious prickling; and you could have milk at home.

“And I tell you, Minna,” said Dave.  “Bread and butter and cheese, lots of it, rye bread and pumpernickel and Schweitzerkase and some pickles and radishes, nicht wahr?”

“Yes,” said Minna, “all!” and moved on to the bar.  But Dave detained her.

“Minna!”

She stopped and turned back to him.

“You will?”

“Sprechen sie Deutsch, Minna?”

“Ja—­yes—­why not?  I should think I do.  I always could.  Why couldn’t I?”

She went on her mission, grumbling pettishly.  Why shouldn’t she speak her own language?  What did the man think?  He must be a joker!

“Mamma!” Herman called again.  “Git also the young one some that apfel kuchen.  You make it awful good.”

“Yes,” called Minna from the bar.  “I git it.  For why wouldn’t I speak my own language, I like to know?”

Dave Cowan’s jest was smouldering faintly within her.  She returned presently with the stein of beer and a glass of milk, and went, still muttering, for the food that had been commanded.  She returned with this, setting bread and butter and cheese before them, and a blue plate whose extensive area was all but covered with apple cake, but now she no longer muttered in bewilderment.  She confronted the jester, hands upon hips, her doll eyes shining with triumph.

“Hah!  Now, mister, I ask you something good like you ask me.  You git ready! Sprechen sie English?”

Dave Cowan affected to be overcome with confusion, while Minna laughed loud and long at her sally.  Herman laughed with her, his head back and huge red beard lifted from his chest.

“She got you that time, mister!” he called to Dave.  “Mamma’s a bright one, give her a minute so she gits herself on the spot!”

“Ja!  Sprechen sie English?” taunted Minna again, for a second relish of her repartee.  Effusively, in her triumph, she patted the cheek of the Wilbur twin. “Ja!  I could easy enough give your poppa as good like he sent, yes? Sprechen sie English, nicht wahr?”

Again her bulk trembled with honest mirth, and while this endured she went to the ice box and brought a bone for Frank, the dog.  Frank fell upon it with noisy gurgles.

Dave Cowan affected further confusion at each repetition of Minna’s stinging retort; acted it so convincingly that the victor at length relented and brought a plate of cookies to the table.