with suspicion, and reach for their weapons. And then one of them—history will never learn his name—says, “Oh, damn it, boys, let’s chuck it!”
“Right you are, mate,” says the second man with relief, laying aside his weapon.
“Give us a bit of bacon then, fathead,” the third one asks with a certain gentleness.
The fourth man returns, “Crikey, I could do with a smoke. Hasn’t anybody got a——?”
“Let’s clear off, boys,” urges the fifth. “We’re not going to have any more of it.”
“I’ll give you a cigarette,” says the sixth, “but you’ll have to give me a bit of bread.”
“We’re going home, boys . . . think of it . . . home,” the seventh one cries.
“Is your old woman expecting you?” the eighth man asks.
“My God, it’s six years since I slept in a proper bed,” sighs the ninth.
“What a mug’s game it was, lads!” says the tenth man, spitting disgustedly.
“It was that!” the eleventh replies, “but we’ve done with it now.”
“We’ve done with it,” repeats the twelfth man. “We’re not such fools. Let’s go home, mates!”
“Oh, but I’m glad it’s all over,” concludes the thirteenth, turning over to lie on the other side.
And such, one can well imagine, was the end of the Greatest War.
XXX
THE END OF EVERYTHING
Many years went by. Brych the stoker, now the proprietor of a locksmith’s business, was sitting in the Damohorsky tavern, reading a copy of the People’s Journal.
“The liver sausages will be ready in a minute,” announced the landlord, emerging from the kitchen. And bless me if it wasn’t old Jan Binder, who used to own the merry-go-round. He had grown fat and no longer wore his striped jersey; nevertheless it was he!
“There’s no hurry,” Mr. Brych answered slowly. “Father Jost hasn’t turned up yet. Nor Rejzek either.”
“And—how is Mr. Kuzenda getting along?” Jan Binder inquired.
“Oh, well, you know. He’s not very grand. He’s one of the best men breathing, Mr. Binder.”
“He is, indeed,” assented the innkeeper. “I don’t know . . . Mr. Brych . . . what about taking him a few of the liver sausages with my compliments? They’re first class, Mr. Brych, and if you’d be so kind . . .”
“Why, with pleasure, Mr. Binder. He’ll be delighted to think you remember him. Of course I will. With pleasure!”
“Praised be the Lord!” came a voice from the doorway, and Canon Jost stepped into the room, his cheeks ruddy with the cold, and hung up his hat and fur coat.
“Good evening, your Reverence,” responded Mr. Brych. “We’ve waited for you—we’ve waited.”
Father Jost pursed his lips contentedly and rubbed his stiffened hands. “Well, sir, what’s in the papers, what have they got to say to-day?”
“I was just reading this: ‘The President of the Republic has appointed that youthful savant, Dr. Blahous, Lecturer at the University, to be Assistant Professor.’ You remember, Canon, it’s that Blahous who once wrote an article about Mr. Kuzenda.”
“Aha, aha,” said Father Jost, wiping his little spectacles. “I know, I know, the atheist. They are a lot of infidels at the University. And you’re another, Mr. Brych.”
“Come, his Reverence will pray for us, I know,” said Mr. Binder. “He’ll want us in heaven to make up the card-party. Well, your Reverence, two and one?”
“Yes, of course, two and one.”
Mr. Binder opened the kitchen door and shouted:
“Two liver sausages and one blood-sausage.”
“ ’Evening!” growled Rejzek, the journalist, entering the room. “It’s cold, friends.”
“It’s a very pleasant evening,” chirped Mr. Binder. “We don’t get company like this every day.”
“Well, what’s the news?” inquired Father Jost gaily. “What’s going on in the editorial sanctum? Ah, yes, I used to write for the papers myself in my young days.”
“By the way, that fellow Blahous mentioned me in the paper too that time,” said Mr. Brych. “I’ve still got the cutting somewhere. ‘The Apostle of Kuzenda’s Sect,’ or something like that, he called me. Yes, yes, those were the days!”
“Let’s have supper,” ordered Mr. Rejzek. Mr. Binder and his daughter were already setting the sausages on the table. They were still sizzling, covered with frothing bubbles of fat, and they reclined upon crisp sauerkraut like Turkish odalisques on cushions. Father Jost clicked his tongue resoundingly and cut into the first beauty before him.
“Splendid,” said Mr. Brych after a while.
“Mhm,” came from Mr. Rejzek after a lengthier interval.
“Binder, these do you credit,” said the Canon approvingly.
A silence ensued, full of appreciation and pious meditations.
“Allspice,” contributed Mr. Brych. “I love the smell of it.”
“But it mustn’t be too much in evidence.”
“No, this is just as it should be.”
“And the skin must be just crisp enough.”
“Mhm.” And again conversation ceased for a space.
“And the sauerkraut must be nice and white.”
“In Moravia,” said Mr. Brych, “they make the sauerkraut like a sort of porridge. I was there as an apprentice. It’s quite runny.”
“Oh, come,” exclaimed Father Jost. “Sauerkraut has to be strained. Don’t talk such nonsense. Why, the stuff wouldn’t be fit to eat.”
“Well, there you are . . . they do eat it that way down there. With spoons.”
“Horrible!” cried the Canon, marvelling. “What extraordinary people they must be, friends! Why, sauerkraut should only just be greased, shouldn’t it, Mr. Binder? I don’t understand how anyone could have it any other way.”
“Well, you know,” said Mr. Brych meditatively, “it’s just the same with sauerkraut as it is with religion. One man can’t understand how another can believe anything different.”
“Oh,
