Scores of men sat talking at the tables, smoking, devouring sandwiches,
upturning their mugs of beer over the capacious receptacles provided by
nature.
The mediaeval chairs appealed to the romanticism that lies beneath
Breffny's satirical exterior; and when Max called our attention to the fact
that the mugs of beer came through apertures from caves beneath the street,
we were content.
For the hour, the problem of human happiness was solved for us three by
three foaming mugs, three sandwiches, and tobacco.
Here communed we three, blown from various winds, to this local Bohemia:
Max, native of the free German City of Frankfort, operatic manager in Rio
Janeiro, musician in New York, Denver resident by adoption, Philadelphia
newspaperman by preference; Breffny, born in a Spanish village, reared in
Continental countries, professedly an Irishman, but more than half-Latin in
temperament and appearance, a cyclopedia for the benefit of his friends,
and myself.
The talk ran to the imposture recently attempted by young Mr. Herdling, who
claimed that the dead body found at Tarrytown was that of his wife.
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