“You have a lot of Germans out there, haven’t you? So have we in Russia, alas!” Basil interposed with a wry smile. “Yes, Germans are Germans,” Wynne replied. “We don’t cotton to ’em much, but when fresh off the farm they are all right enough in their way. It’s the Germo-American I object to. He who is either born in America, or imported at little cost and so tender an age that he mistakes himself for one of us. We have specimens worth the price of admission, just for the privilege of ogling them. There’s one peacherino I especially admire--a big bug, too, you bet! He came over when he was a little shaver, and began his industrial career as a sausage-peddler out West. He knew a thing or two, though, and little by little he came to own a butcher shop, then two, then three--like the boy who started in by selling sand to grocers to put in the sugar--and ended in a lake-shore palace and the smartest set. Well, this ambitious butcher I’m speaking of finally went into the cattle business--wholesale, on the hoof, and all that, you know--until, having made a pile as high as Chimborazo, he housed his family in marble halls and let madame and her young uns have their fling. Nothing was too good for them--an art-gallery filled with masterpieces, a music-room where the most expensive musicanders were heard. Plush liveries placarded with fine gold for the servants--we don’t say help any more, even out West; we’ve found out the fallacy of it--motor-cars from France, a steam-yacht on the lake--they refuse themselves nothing, and their only shame is that old German father of the whole shooting-match, who has not risen with his fortunes! He is a holy show, it’s a fact, slouching about in an aged overcoat and a shabby soft hat, up at five every morning and sneaking out of his castle to do what? Bet you’d never guess! Why, just as a matter of habit to go to the stock-yards and with his own hands slaughter a hog. It has become second nature to him, and he swears it gives him an appetite for breakfast.” Sir Robert, who had been neglecting his charming neighbors, burst into a roar of laughter. “To kill a hog! To kill a ...” he choked, crimson with appreciation. “Marble halls, hogs--help!” he gurgled on. “You are a queer chap, Wynne! I like you!” “So do I, Sir Robert,” was the prompt reply. “I was afraid my little story might have shocked everybody.” “Nonsense,” the Baronet protested. “Give us some more of your experiences, do! You take life as it should be taken--on its jolly side. It’s the right way.”