“Or about your tramping on foot to Chicago,” said Lobkowitz.

“Or,” said Ritter, “your adventure in Boston, when two policemen, strangely mistaking your condition for a tremendous jag, took you on a drive in the patrol wagon to the lock-up.”

“It’s very good they did,” said Franck, smiling and tossing the lock from his forehead.  “I should certainly have caught a cold if they hadn’t.”

To Frederick’s puzzlement, every one of Franck’s utterances was greeted by a shout of laughter.

“Franck is a genuine genius,” whispered Willy to Frederick, while filling a glass with Chianti, “and the greatest eccentric in the world.  Franck,” he cried, “didn’t you come to America without a cent of money?”

“For what does one need money?” Franck rejoined, at great leisure, with a naive smile.

“Didn’t you come over as a stoker?”

“Ye-e-es,” said Franck, “I was engaged as a stoker.”

“But you didn’t do any stoking?”

“No, I didn’t have the muscle for it.”

“But what did you do on the ship?” asked Lobkowitz.

“I?  I sailed on the ocean.”

“Of course.  But you were engaged to work.  You must have done something to earn money.”

“I played sixty-six with the first mate.”

Finally Franck’s story was extracted from him.  It was by painting the portrait of the head-steward that he had lived so handsomely on the steamer and had landed on American soil with fifty dollars in his pocket, though a day later not a cent of the fifty dollars was left.

“Money’s a nuisance,” said Franck.

III

Up to this point a wholesome-looking waitress, in white cap and apron, had been serving.  Now the Italian cook himself, Simone Brambilla, came in to bring on the dessert and cheese and inquire whether the dinner had been to the gentlemen’s taste.  The familiarity between masters and cook, who spoke Italian together, testified to the best relations between them.  This little fragment of the artists’ Italy in America enlivened them all, bringing back memories of the days they had spent in Italy, the days that signify the heyday of their youth to all German scholars and artists.

“Now then, strike up a tune, my boy!” Willy suddenly ordered the cook, “Signor Simone Brambilla, you will please perform for us now!  And cantare.  Understand? Ma forte not too mezza voce!” He took a mandolin from the sideboard and pressed it into the chef’s arms.

“Signor Guglielmo e sempre buffo,” said the cook.

“That’s it—­buffo, buffo,” cried Franck, striking the table with his fist.  His smile had already turned somewhat idiotic, and he seemed to think “buffo” meant “to sing.”

“Cosa vuole sentire?” asked Brambilla.

“‘Addio mia bella Napoli,’” suggested Willy, “or anything you like, Mr. Brambilla.”