There was nothing that Hank liked better than to tease some one who looked as if he might prove an unresisting victim, and here was one ready to his hand, at least so he judged.
“Hello, Dutchy,” he remarked amiably, “been taking a bath with your clothes on?”
Young Dill faced round on him and looked him over from top to toe.
“Aber I dink idt a bath do you no harm, mein freindt, aindt idt,” he remarked blandly, “midt or midoudt clothes on.”
This was not exactly what Hank had expected, and a subdued chuckle from some hangers on about the hotel porch did not increase his good humor.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t cross on the same boat,” observed Hank. “If I’d seen you I’d never have landed.”
“So----” observed young Dill amiably, “veel dere vos no chance of your seeing me alretty.”
Hank winked at the loungers in order to show them that he was now prepared to have some fun with the queer-looking German youth.
“Is that so? How was that, Dutchy?” he asked with a grin.
“Pecos I come on a _passenger_ boat,” rejoined young Dill with all the equanimity in the world.
A look of intense discomfiture spread over Hank’s face.
“The Dutchman’s too much for him,” he heard some one whisper. As might be expected this remark did not tend to smooth over Hank’s feelings toward the simple-looking young German. Instead he determined to launch some shaft of wit at him that would squash him flatter than a pancake. But so far all his attempts had proved boomerangs.
“I suppose you know all about sausages?” he asked.
Young Dill’s eyes glittered. Here was a subject in which he was deeply interested.
“Oh ches!” he burst out eagerly, “sissages und----”
“Never mind that, Sauerkraut,” sneered Hank. “What kind of meat makes the best bologna?”
Young Dill, who was smart enough in his way, saw that some joke was going to be had at his expense if he did not look out. The loungers leaned forward expectantly. Hank looked triumphant. At last he thought he had the “Dutchman” up a tree.
“You vant to know vot kindt of meat makes idt pest bolognas?” he asked innocently.
“That’s what I said, Dutch,” grinned Hank.
“You ought to know dot aber bedder dan me alretty,” said young Dill gravely.
“Is that so, old Sauerkraut? How’s that?”
“Pecos der pest bologna is made midt calf’s headt, undt you vos veel supplidt mid dot,” drawled out young Dill, and without waiting to hear the roar of laughter that went up at Hank’s expense, he wandered into the office and registered. His signature was a peculiar one. This is how it read on the register: