Quite what one might expect from a born Englishman. Grumbkow, ask the Baronet whether the young man, who is doubtless destined to introduce Prussian tactics into England, would serve better on foot or to horse. HOTHAM. He begs for a place with the Dragoons of the Guard in Potsdam. KING. Potsdam? That won't do. They all want to serve in the Guard. No--no.... But he can--for a while, at least--join the Glasenapp Musketiers in Pasewalk. That's a fine regiment, too. HOTHAM. Please express my sincere thanks to His Majesty. The young recruit will have the honor to present himself personally to His Majesty in a few days. KING. Grumbkow, suppose we offered Baronet Hotham, as a sign of our friendship, a position as recruiting officer? HOTHAM. He would decline this honor, but he would beg another favor. KING. And that is--? HOTHAM. In all journals, in all records of travel, we read of a certain gathering in Berlin which goes beyond anything an Englishman can imagine in the way of clubs or private affairs. KING. Dear me--our police permit that sort of thing in Berlin? Really, I am most curious. HOTHAM. A certain genial personage gathers around him several times weekly, in a small, low-ceilinged room in the palace, a small but select circle of men on whom be bestows his confidence. Sitting on wooden stools, often in their shirt-sleeves, beer tankards before them on the great open table, Dutch clay pipes in their mouths, they entertain each other in the most unrestrained manner in spite of the exalted position held by most of these men. Some who do not smoke hold cold pipes between their teeth, that they may not mar the harmony of the picture. One member of the circle is singled out nightly as an object for mirth, and the choice is made by lot. Each and every one can in turn become the butt of merry satire. To have been present at a meeting of this oddest of all court gatherings would furnish me with the most notable memory I could carry away from Berlin. KING. Egad, Grumbkow! I believe he means our Smoker. HOTHAM. The world-renowned Prussian "tobacco-conference." KING. And you have--the gentleman has--no. [_He rises_.] I shan't use the customary procedure any more. Baronet Hotham, you have heard of my Smokers? You have said nice things about them. That reconciles me--can you smoke? HOTHAM. Yes, Your Majesty, the light Dutch Varinas, at least. KING. I have that--and the Porto-Rican and Hungarian tobaccos as well. In fact, I'm having quite a good sort grown here in the Mark Brandenberg now. HOTHAM. I fear I should have to decline trying that. KING. Give me your hand, Baronet. Come to our conference tonight. We will wash down our diplomatic disagreement with a good drink of beer, and blue clouds of smoke from our pipes shall waft away all the intrigues, plots and counter-plots. GRUMBKOW. But--Your Majesty, who is to furnish the source of amusement tonight? HOTHAM. Will Your Majesty take me as the scapegoat? KING.