The interior was dark and, to the country youth’s eyes, unexpectedly vast. The floor was sprinkled with gray sand. An infinitude of small, circular oak tables, each surrounded with chairs, stretched out in every direction into the distant gloom. Away at the farther end of the place, somebody was banging furiously on a piano. In the middle distance, three elderly men sat smoking long pipes and playing dominoes, silently, save for the sharp clatter of the pieces. Nearer, three other men, seated about a table, were all roaring in German at the top of their lungs, pounding with their glasses on the resounding wood, and making the most excited and menacing gestures. While Seth stared at them, expecting momentarily to see the altercation develop into blows, he felt himself clutched by the arm, and heard Tom say: “Bismarck, this is Mr. Fairchild, a new _Chronicle_ man. You must use him as well as you do me.” Seth turned and found himself shaking hands with an old German monstrous in girth, and at once fierce and comical in aspect, with short, upright gray hair, a huge yellowish-white moustache, and little piggish blue eyes nearly hidden from view by the wave of fat which rendered his great purple face as featureless as the bottom of a platter. “Who effer vas Misder Vott’s frent, den you bed he owens dis whole houwus,” this stout gentleman wheezed out, smiling warmly, and releasing Seth’s hand to indicate, with a sweeping gesture of his pudgy paw, the extent of Seth’s new and figurative possessions. On the invitation of the host they all took seats, and a lean, wolfish-faced young man named “Ow-goost,” who shuffled along pushing his big slippers on the floor, brought three tall foaming glasses of dark-brown beer. Seth did not care for beer, and had always, in a general way, avoided saloons and drink, but of course, under these circumstances, it would be ridiculous not to do as the others did. The beverage was bitter, but not unpleasant, and with an effort he drank it half down at a time, as he saw his companions do. Then he looked about, while they discussed the merits of this new “bock,” Tom speaking with an air of great authority, and pronouncing it better than the last, but a bit too cold. The piano was still jangling, and the dominoes were being rattled around for a new game. The three noisy old men had grown, if possible, more violent and boisterous than ever. One of them now sprang to his feet, lifted his right hand dramatically toward the dusky ceiling, and bellowed forth sonorously something which Seth thought must be at least a challenge to immediate combat, while the others hammered their glasses vehemently, and fairly shrieked dissent. “I’m afraid those men are going to fight,” he said. “Fight? Nonsense! They’re rather quieter than usual,” remarked Tom. “What are they chewing on to-night, Bismarck--the Sigel racket?”