The tables and chairs
of hard, coarse wood were greasy--napkins and table-cloths were not to
be mentioned, else would the brethren suspect the presence of an
aristocrat. At the upper end, beyond the little black bar, there was a
platform, upon it a table, a pianoforte, and a stool. Still he managed
to conceal his repugnance to all these uninviting things and he sipped
his diluted Rhine wine, ate his sandwich--an unpalatable one--under the
watchful eyes of his companion. By eight o'clock the room was jammed
with working-people, all talking and in a half dozen tongues.
Occasionally Yetta left him to join a group, and where she went silence
fell. She was the oracle of the crowd. At nine o'clock Arthur's head
ached. He had smoked all his Turkish cigarettes, the odour of which
caused some surprise--there was a capitalist present and they knew him.
Only Yetta prevented disagreeable comment. The men, who belonged to the
proletarian class, were poorly dressed and intelligent; the women wore
shawls on their heads and smoked bad cigarettes. The saloon did not
smell nice, Arthur thought.
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