So after that they took him away in a drunks' cart to sober him up again. Well, Mrs Miiller, what a world we live in, to be sure!
What a loss for Austria again!
When I was in the army an infantryman once shot a captain.
He loaded his rifle and went into his office.
They told him he had no business there, but he went on insisting he must speak to the captain.
The captain came out and at once gave him "confined to barracks!" But he took up his rifle and bang it went, plum through the captain's heart.
The bullet flew out of his back and damaged the office into the bargain. It smashed a bottle of ink which messed up the official documents.'
'Oh, goodness, and what happened to that soldier?' asked Mrs Mi.iller later, while Svejk was dressing.
'He hanged himself on his braces,' said Svejk, cleaning his bowler.
'And what's more they weren't even his. He'd borrowed them from the warder on the excuse that his trousers were falling down.
Do you think he should have waited until they shot him?
You know, Mrs Miiller, in a situation like that anyone would be in a flap.
They reduced the warder to the ranks because of it and gave him six months. But he didn't sit them out. He ran away to Switzerland and today he's a preacher of some church or other.
Today there are very few honest people about, Mrs Muller.
I can imagine that His Imperial Highness, the Archduke Ferdinand, made a mistake in Sarajevo about that chap who shot him.
He saw a gentleman and thought,
"He must be a decent fellow who's giving me a cheer."
And instead of that he gave him bang! bang!
Did he give him one bang or several, Mrs Muller?'
'The newspaper says, sir, that His Imperial Highness was riddled like a sieve.
He emptied all his cartridges into him.'
'Well, it goes jolly quickly, Mrs Muller, terribly quickly.
I'd buy a Browning for a job like that. It looks like a toy, but in a couple of minutes you can shoot twenty archdukes with it, never mind whether they're thin or fat.
Although, between you and me, Mrs Muller, a fat archduke's a better mark than a thin one.
You may remember the time they shot that king of theirs in Portugal?
He was a fat chap too.
After all, you wouldn't expect a king to be thin, would you? Well, now I'm going to the pub, The Chalice, and if anyone comes here for that miniature pinscher, which I took an advance on, tell them I've got him in my kennels in the country, that I've only just cropped his ears, and he mustn't be moved until they heal up, otherwise they'll catch cold.
Would you please give the key to the house-porter.'
There was only one guest sitting at The Chalice.
It was the plainclothes police officer, Bretschneider, who worked for the State Security.
The landlord, Palivec, was washing up the glasses and Bretschneider was vainly endeavouring to engage him in serious conversation.
Palivec was notorious for his foul mouth.
Every second word of his was 'arse' or 'shit'.
But at the same time he was well read and told everyone to read what Victor Hugo wrote on this subject when he described the last answer Napoleon's Old Guard gave to the British at the Battle of Waterloo.
'Well, it's a glorious summer!' said Bretschneider, embarking on his serious conversation.
'Shit on everything!' answered Palivec, putting the glasses away into a cupboard.
'It's a fine thing they've done to us at Sarajevo,' said Bretschneider with a faint hope.
'Which Sarajevo?' asked Palivec.
'Do you mean the wine cellar at Nusle?
They're always fighting there, you know.
Of course it's Nusle.'
'At Sarajevo in Bosnia, Mr Palivec.
They've just shot His Imperial Highness, the Archduke Ferdinand, there.
What do you say to that?'
'I don't poke my nose into things like that.
They can kiss my arse if I do!' Palivec replied politely, lighting his pipe.
'Nowadays, if anyone got mixed up in a business like that, he'd risk breaking his neck.
I'm a tradesman and when anyone comes in here and orders a beer I fill up his glass.
But Sarajevo, politics or the late lamented Archduke are nothing for people like us.
They lead straight to Pankrac'