ntelligent; the women wore
shawls on their heads and smoked bad cigarettes. The saloon did not
smell nice, Arthur thought. He had offered Yetta one of his imported
cigarettes, but she lighted a horrible weed and blew the smoke in his
face.

At ten o'clock he wished himself away. But a short, stout man with a
lopsided face showing through his tangled beard, stood up and said in
German:--

"All who are not _our_ friends, please leave the house."

No one stirred. The patron went from group to group saluting his
customers and eying those who were not. Whether any password or signal
was given Arthur could not say. When the blond, good-natured Schwab
reached him, Yetta whispered in his ear. The host beamed on the young
American and gave him a friendly poke in the back; Arthur felt as if he
had been knighted. He said this to Yetta, but her attention was
elsewhere. The doors and windows were quickly shut and bolted. She
nudged his elbow--for they were sitting six at the table, much to his
disgust; the other four drank noisily--and he followed her to the top of
the room. A babble broke out as they moved along.

"It's Yetta's new catch. Yetta's rich fellow. Wait until she gets
through with him--poor devil." These broken phrases made him shiver,
especially as Yetta's expression, at first enigmatic, was now openly
sardonic. What did she mean? Was she only tormenting him? Was this to be
his test, his trial? His head was almost splitting, for the heat was
great and the air bad. Again he wished himself home.

They reached the platform. "Jump up, Arthur, and help me," she
commanded. He did so. But his discomfiture only grew apace with the
increased heat--the dingy ceiling crushed him--and the rows in front,
the entire floor seemed transformed to eyes, malicious eyes. She told
him to sit down at the piano and play the Marseillaise. Then standing
before the table she drew from her bosom a scarlet flag, and accompanied
by the enthusiastic shoutings she led the singing. Arthur at the
keyboard felt exalted. Forgotten the pains of a moment before. He
hammered the keys vigorously, extorting from the battered instrument a
series of curious croakings. Some of the keys did not "speak," some gave
forth a brazen clangour from the rusty wires. No one cared. The singing
stopped with the last verse.

"Now La Ravachole for our French brethren." This combination of
revolutionary lyrics--Ca Ira and Carmagnole--was chanted fervidly. Then
came for