He had apparently staked out a claim
to this small spot, a claim which the other dancers had decided to
respect; but Bill and the Good Sport, coming up from behind, had
him two yards away from it at the first impact. Then, scattering
apologies broadcast like a medieval monarch distributing largesse,
Bill whirled his partner round by sheer muscular force and began
what he intended to be a movement toward the farther corner,
skirting the edge of the floor. It was his simple belief that
there was more safety there than in the middle.
He had not reckoned with Heinrich Joerg. Indeed, he was not aware
of Heinrich Joerg's existence. Yet fate was shortly to bring them
together, with far-reaching results. Heinrich Joerg had left the
Fatherland a good many years before with the prudent purpose of
escaping military service. After various vicissitudes in the land
of his adoption--which it would be extremely interesting to
relate, but which must wait for a more favourable opportunity--he
had secured a useful and not ill-recompensed situation as one of
the staff of Reigelheimer's Restaurant. He was, in point of fact,
a waiter, and he comes into the story at this point bearing a tray
full of glasses, knives, forks, and pats of butter on little
plates. He was setting a table for some new arrivals, and in order
to obtain more scope for that task he had left the crowded aisle
beyond the table and come round to the edge of the dancing-floor.
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