“Oh, not much!” he said.  “We had a bottle of wine priced at eighteen francs and they have merely charged us twenty-four francs for it—­six francs overcharge on that one item alone.  The total for the sandwiches should have been six francs, and it is put down at ten francs.  And here, away down at the bottom, I find a mysterious entry of four francs, which seems to have no bearing on the case at all—­unless it be that they just simply need the money.  I expected to be skinned somewhat, but I object to being peeled.  I’m afraid, at the risk of appearing mercenary, that we’ll have to ask our friend for a recount.”

He beckoned the waiter to him and fired a volley of rapid French in the waiter’s face.  The waiter batted his eyes and shrugged his shoulders; then reversing the operation he shrugged his eyelids and batted his shoulderblades, meantime endeavoring volubly to explain.  Our friend shoved the check into his hands and waved him away.  He was back again in a minute with the account corrected.  That is, it was corrected to the extent that the wine item had been reduced to twenty-one francs and the sandwiches to eight francs.

By now our paymaster was as hot as a hornet.  His gorge rose—­his freeborn, independent American gorge.  It rose clear to the ceiling and threw off sparks and red clinkers.  He sent for the manager.  The manager came, all bows and graciousness and rumply shirtfront; and when he heard what was to be said he became all apologies and indignation.  He regretted more than words could tell that the American gentlemen who deigned to patronize his restaurant had been put to annoyance.  The garcon—­here he turned and burned up that individual with a fiery sideglance—­was a debased idiot and the misbegotten son of a yet greater and still more debased idiot.  The cashier was a green hand and an imbecile besides.  It was incredible, impossible, that the overcharging had been done deliberately; that was inconceivable.  But the honor of his establishment was at stake.  They should both, garcon and cashier, be discharged on the spot.  First, however, he would rectify all mistakes.  Would monsieur intrust the miserable addition to him for a moment, for one short moment?  Monsieur would and did.

This time the amount was made right and our friend handed over in payment a fifty-franc note.  With his own hands the manager brought back the change.  Counting it over, the payee found it five francs short.  Attention being directed to this error the manager became more apologetic and more explanatory than ever, and supplied the deficiency with a shiny new five-franc piece from his own pocket.  And then, when we had gone away from there and had traveled a homeward mile or two, our friend found that the new shiny five-franc piece was counterfeit—­as false a thing as that manager’s false smile.  We had bucked the unbeatable system, and we had lost.