teresting Bohemians,
but now only artists and musicians and literary folk frequent it.
But the Pilsner is yet good, and I take some diversion from the
conversation of Waiter No. 18.

For many years the customers of Old Munich have accepted the place
as a faithful copy from the ancient German town. The big hall with
its smoky rafters, rows of imported steins, portrait of Goethe,
and verses painted on the walls--translated into German from the
original of the Cincinnati poets--seems atmospherically correct when
viewed through the bottom of a glass.

But not long ago the proprietors added the room above, called it
the Little Rheinschloss, and built in a stairway. Up there was an
imitation stone parapet, ivy-covered, and the walls were painted to
represent depth and distance, with the Rhine winding at the base of
the vineyarded slopes, and the castle of Ehrenbreitstein looming
directly opposite the entrance. Of course there were tables and
chairs; and you could have beer and food brought you, as you
naturally would on the top of a castle on the Rhine.

I went into Old Munich one afternoon when there were few customers,
and sat at my usual table near the stairway. I was shocked and
almost displeased to perceive that the glass cigar-case by the
orchestra stand had been smashed to smithereens. I did not like
things to happen in Old Munich. Nothing had ever happened there
before.

Waiter No. 18 came and breathed on my neck. I was his by right of
discovery. Eighteen's brain was built like a corral. It was full of
ideas which, when he opened the gate, came huddling out like a flock
of sheep that might get together afterward or might not. I did not
shine as a shepherd. As a type Eighteen fitted nowhere. I did not
find out if he had a nationality, family, creed, grievance, hobby,
soul, preference, home, or vote. He only came always to my table
and, as long as his leisure would permit, let words flutter from him
like swallows leaving a barn at daylight.

"How did the cigar-case come to be broken, Eighteen?" I asked, with
a certain feeling of personal grievance.

"I can tell you about that, sir," said he, resting his foot on the
chair next to mine. "Did you ever have anybody hand you a double
handful of good luck while both your hands was full of bad luck, and
stop to notice how your fingers behaved?"

"No riddles, Eighteen," said I. "Leave out palmistry and
manicuring."

"You remember," said Eighteen, "the guy in the ham