his thick voice. "Congradulade me, congradulade me; mein vife has giben birth to a poy."
Thatcher shook a fat little hand. "Mine's a girl," he admitted, sheepishly.
"It is fif years yet and every year a girl, and now dink of it, a poy."
"Yes," said Ed Thatcher as they stepped out on the pavement, "it's a great moment."
"Vill yous allow me sir to invite you to drink a congradulation drink mit me?"
"Why with pleasure."
The latticed halfdoors were swinging in the saloon at the corner of Third Avenue. Shuffling their feet politely they went through into the back room.
"Ach," said the German as they sat down at a scarred brown table, "family life is full of vorries."
"That it is sir; this is my first."
"Vill you haf beer?"
"All right anything suits me."
"Two pottles Culmbacher imported to drink to our little folk." The bottles popped and the sepia-tinged foam rose in the glasses. "Here's success. . . . Prosit," said the German, and raised his glass. He rubbed the foam out of his mustache and pounded on the table with a pink fist. "Vould it be indiscreet meester . . . ?"
"Thatcher's my name."
"Vould it be indiscreet, Mr. Thatcher, to inquvire vat might your profession be?"
"Accountant. I hope before long to be a certified accountant."
"I am a printer and my name is Zucher—Marcus Antonius Zucher."
"Pleased to meet you Mr. Zucher."
They shook hands across the table between the bottles.
"A certified accountant makes big money," said Mr. Zucher.
"Big money's what I'll have to have, for my little girl."