Wutzler, red with excitement, came and went like an anxious waiter, bringing in the feast.
"Here iss not moch," he repeated sadly.

But there were bits of pig-skin stewed in oil; bean-cakes; steaming buns of wheat-flour, stuffed with dice of fat pork and lumps of sugar; three-cornered rice puddings, _no-me_ boiled in plantain-leaf wrappers; with the last of the whiskey, in green cups.

While the two men ate, the shriveled outcast beamed timidly, hovering about them, fidgeting.
"Herr Hackh," he suddenly exclaimed, in a queer, strained voice, "you do not know how dis yong man iss goot! No! He hass to me--_immer_--" He choked, turned away, and began fussing with the pith flowers; but not before Rudolph had seen a line glistening down the sun-dried cheeks.
"Stuff! Cadging for chow, does one acquire merit ?" retorted Heywood, over his shoulder.

"You talk like a bonze, Wutz." He winked.

"I'd rather hear the sing-song box." "_Ach so_, I forget!" Still whimpering, Wutzler dragged something from a corner, squatted, and jerked at a crank, with a noise of ratchets.