Blackie regarded me pityingly. “You ain’t never been to Baumbach’s? Why girl, if you don’t know Baumbach’s, you ain’t never been properly introduced to Milwaukee. No wonder you ain’t hep to the ways of this little community. There ain’t what the s’ciety editor would call the proper ontong cordyal between you and the natives if you haven’t had coffee at Baumbach’s. It ain’t hardly legal t’ live in Milwaukee all this time without ever having been inside of B—” “Stop! If you do not tell me at once just where this wonderful place may be found, and what one does when one finds it, and how I happened to miss it, and why it is so necessary to the proper understanding of the city—” “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Blackie, grinning, “I’ll romp you over there to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock. Ach Himmel! What will that for a grand time be, no?” “Blackie, you’re a dear to be so polite to an old married cratur’ like me. Did you notice—that is, does Ernst von Gerhard drop in often at Baumbach’s?” CHAPTER VIII. KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN I have visited Baumbach’s. I have heard Milwaukee drinking its afternoon Kaffee. O Baumbach’s, with your deliciously crumbling butter cookies and your kaffee kuchen, and your thick cream, and your thicker waitresses and your cockroaches, and your dinginess and your dowdy German ladies and your black, black Kaffee, where in this country is there another like you! Blackie, true to his promise, had hailed me from the doorway on the afternoon of the following day. In the rush of the day’s work I had quite forgotten about Blackie and Baumbach’s. “Come, Kindchen!” he called. “Get your bonnet on. We will by Baumbach’s go, no?” Ruefully I gazed at the grimy cuffs of my blouse, and felt of my dishevelled hair. “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t go. I look so mussy. Haven’t had time to brush up.” “Brush up!” scoffed Blackie, “the only thing about you that will need brushin’ up is your German. I was goin’ t’ warn you to rumple up your hair a little so you wouldn’t feel overdressed w’en you got there. Come on, girl.” And so I came. And oh, I’m so glad I came! I must have passed it a dozen times without once noticing it—just a dingy little black shop nestling between two taller buildings, almost within the shadow of the city hall. Over the sidewalk swung a shabby black sign with gilt letters that spelled, “Franz Baumbach.” Blackie waved an introductory hand in the direction of the sign. “There he is. That’s all you’ll ever see of him.” “Dead?” asked I, regretfully, as we entered the narrow doorway. “No; down in the basement baking Kaffeekuchen.”