"Just a minute," Arth said, staggering erect and heading for what undoubtedly was a bathroom. "Stay where you are. Don't move. Don't touch anything." "All right," I told him plaintively. "I'm clean. I won't mess up the place. All I've got is a hangover, not lice." Arth was gone. He came back in two or three minutes, box of pills in hand. "Here, take one of these." I took the pill, followed it with a glass of water. * * * * * And went out like a light. Arth was shaking my arm. "Want another _mass_?" The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaring accompaniment. _In Muenchen steht ein Hofbraeuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!_ At the _G'sufa_ everybody upped with their king-size mugs and drank each other's health. My head was killing me. "This is where I came in, or something," I groaned. Arth said, "That was last night." He looked at me over the rim of his beer mug. Something, somewhere, was wrong. But I didn't care. I finished my _mass_ and then remembered. "I've got to get my bag. Oh, my head. Where did we spend last night?" Arth said, and his voice sounded cautious, "At my hotel, don't you remember?" "Not very well," I admitted. "I feel lousy. I must have dimmed out. I've got to go to the Bahnhof and get my luggage." Arth didn't put up an argument on that. We said good-by and I could feel him watching after me as I pushed through the tables on the way out. At the Bahnhof they could do me no good. There were no hotel rooms available in Munich. The head was getting worse by the minute. The fact that they'd somehow managed to lose my bag didn't help. I worked on that project for at least a couple of hours. Not only wasn't the bag at the luggage checking station, but the attendant there evidently couldn't make heads nor tails of the check receipt. He didn't speak English and my high school German was inadequate, especially accompanied by a blockbusting hangover. I didn't get anywhere tearing my hair and complaining from one end of the Bahnhof to the other. I drew a blank on the bag. And the head was getting worse by the minute. I was bleeding to death through the eyes and instead of butterflies I had bats in my stomach. Believe me, _nobody_ should drink a gallon or more of Marzenbraeu. * * * * * I decided the hell with it. I took a cab to the airport, presented my return ticket, told them I wanted to leave on the first obtainable plane to New York. I'd spent two days at the _Oktoberfest_, and I'd had it. I got more guff there. Something was wrong with the ticket, wrong date or some such. But they fixed that up. I never was clear on what was fouled up, some clerk's error, evidently. The trip back was as uninteresting as the one over. As the hangover began to wear off--a little--I was almost sorry I hadn't been able to stay. If I'd only been able to get a room I _would_ have stayed, I told myself.