"Hst!" he shouts to the
studiously unheeding ADOLF; "'nother bottil Pellell--ver' well sare!"
chirrups ADOLF reassuringly to _me_; DONNERWITZ raises his knife;
I fear for the consequences; he brings it down with a clang on
the hardened tumbler of the Grand Hotel; the timid _pensionnaire_
of numberless summers starts and grows pale; SHIRTSOFF looks with
peremptory encouragement towards the Teuton; "_Ach, graesglich!_"
rattles out DONNERWITZ, and strikes again; the cobra-like gutturality
of that "_Ach_" is heart-rending; still no ADOLF; at a gold-fraught
glance from my companions, he has ordered another detachment to the
front; a fresh current of air invades the room. DONNERWITZ's knife is
now brandishing peas; his offended napkin chokes him; with the yell
and spring of a corpulent hyena, he rises and rushes to the windows.
The timid _pensionnaire_ and her shrinking sisterhood follow him,
under the misconception that he is summoning them to admire the
sunset; the sunset is their evening excitement, and DONNERWITZ can be
sentimental in his calmer moments; but no "_Wie wunder, wunderschoen!_"
escapes him; a Saxon word, that even they can understand, is on his
lips; the ring on his forefinger gleams luridly; bang, bang, bang; he
opens fire; down go the windows, and DONNERWITZ resumes his seat of
war, his napkin waving like a standard before him.
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