"Dave Freer - A Lineman for the Country" - читать интересную книгу автора (Freer Dave)

"Irish, eh? I served with a couple o' the Wild Geese. None of them could drink."
The American took out his glasses again. Polished them and put them on. Drained his glass in one
long moustache-foaming draft. "Really? 'Zat so? We'll have another round then, will we?"
Dougal drained his. "Aye. So long as you don't talk all the time. I have nae had a time when I could
take a drink in peace for three weeks. And belike yon Mackay will have me off to Halle in the morning
again."
The American was already waving his tankard at the barmaid. When she came over Dougal realized
this was another old feud.
To work in the Thuringen Gardens you had to have a pretty fair grasp of English. Even the German
customers tended to mix in a fair amount of English. It was a source of pride. Showed you were an old
hand around here. Lawrie was willing to bet button-nose Hildegarde spoke English without effort.
"Was willst Du, Du verdammtes rundes Schwein?" Her comment was a source of some
amusement with the miners at the next table. It was apparent that the American understood not one
word.
"Two beers," he said grumpily, holding up two fingers and pointing at the empty stein.
She looked at him with perfect incomprehension. "Wie Bitte? Was?"
Dougal looked at his empty tankard. It was obvious that this game could go on until a man died of
thirst.
"Mach das zwei Krüge. Und wenn Du sie schnell bringst, erzähle ich deinem Freund nicht
dass Du diesem Amerikaner Augen machst." One of the reasons Dougal Lawrie did so much dispatch
riding was that languages came easily to him. It made simple things like haggling for stabling or asking
directions easier, and the receiving of oral replies a lot safer.
The barmaid had the grace to look embarrassed for a second. But she was a pert one, trouble
looking for a place to happen, Lawrie reckoned. She was quick to recover. She made a showy little
moue. "But you already know, mine darling," she said in thickly accented, but pretty good English. This
got a shout of laughter and a whistle from the table next door, and let her sashay off smiling, without the
tankards.
The American looked at the empty tankards. Sighed. "I never get service. These Germans give me
the gyp. We'll have to go to the bar."
"She's bringing us a couple o' pitchers. Beer's cheaper like that. Which is good o' me, seeing as how
you're paying."
The American sat back. Shook his head. "Okay. Hey, I can't talk their damned language. So what
did she say to me? And what did you say to her?"
Dougal decided that a few beers was worth a bit of tact. "She asked what you wanted." No point in
mentioning the rotund pig part.
"And you said?"
"I told her to bring us two pitchers. And if she made it fast I wouldn't tell her boyfriend she'd been
makin' eyes at you."
The American snorted. But there was a smile behind that moustache. "And you'd have to figure out
who that was tonight." The pitchers arrived. He looked up, startled. "My God. You get service, Scot."
He fumbled out his wallet and paid.
Lawrie contented himself with making a mental note of the barmaid. A bit on the skinny side for his
taste, but worth remembering.
Lawrie poured his beer, watching the fine head form. "If ye cannot speak German, why don't you
do your drinking across at the Club 250?"
"The beer is lousy," said the American. By the way it was said, there was more. He looked at
Lawrie speculatively. He shrugged. "I got thrown out and told not to come back."
Lawrie took a long pull of his beer. Grinned. "Just about have tae get kicked out o' that rat-hole if
ye want to be part o' human race."
The American tugged his moustache. "Yeah. But I thought a couple of them were friends of mine.