The pros'titutes in evening dresses decked with false jewellery were seated expectantly around the table.
Sharply at eight o'clock the glee-party of the cattlemen's club marched in.
They formed up by the door, according to parts, first tenor on the right down to second bass away on the left.
Stefan Grigoleit, widower and pig dealer, produced a tuning fork, gave out the notes and then they started in four voices:
O Holy Night, fill thou our hearts with heavenly peace, Give the poor pilgrim rest; pour balm upon his hurt, The stars are shining brightly, bright in the blue sky, Seeking to lead me back to thee—heavenward, home.
"So moving," said Rosa wiping her eyes.
The second verse died away.
Thunderous applause resounded.
The glee-party bowed its thanks.
Stefan Grfgbleit mopped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Beethoven is still Beethoven," he declared.
No one contradicted.
Stefan stowed away his sweat rag. "And now to arms."
The dinner table was in the big clubroom.
In the centre on silver dishes over little spirit lamps, crisp and brown, reigned the twin suckling-pigs.
They had lemons in their snouts, blazing fir trees on their backs and were surprised at nothing any more.
Alois turned out in newly dyed tails, a gift from the proprietor.
He brought half a dozen pitchers of Steinhager and filled the glasses.
With him came Potter of the Cremation Society, who had just been attending a funeral.
"Peace on earth," said he magnificently, shaking hands with Rosa and taking a place beside her.
Stefen Grigoleit, who at once invited Georg to join them at the table, stood up and delivered the briefest and best speech of his life.
He raised his glass of sparkling gin, looked around beaming, and cried "pros't!"
Then he sat down again and Alois brought in the trotters, sauerkraut and chipped potatoes.
The host arrived with big tall glasses of Pilsener beer.
"Eat slowly, Georg," said I. "Your stomach has to accustom itself to the fatty meat first."
"I have to accustom myself altogether first," he replied and looked at me.
"That won't take long," said I. "No comparisons, that's all.
Then it goes all right."
He nodded and bent again over his plate.
Suddenly there arose a quarrel at the far end of the table.
Potter's crowing voice was audible above the din.
He had been trying to get one of the guests, Busch, a cigar merchant, to drink with him, but Busch had refused on the ground that he didn't want to drink, so as to be able to eat more.
"That's damned nonsense," snapped Potter. "To eat you have to drink.
If you drink you can even eat more." "Rot," boomed Busch, a gaunt, tall fellow with a flat nose and horn-rimmed spectacles.
Potter leapt up. "
'Rot?'
You say that to me, you tobacco owl?"
"Peace," called Stefan Grigoleit. "No rows on Christmas Eve."
He had them explain what the trouble was and delivered a Solomon's judgment. The matter should be tried out.
In front of each of the disputants were placed several plates of equal size with meat, potatoes and sauerkraut.
They were enormous portions.
Potter was allowed to drink whatever, he liked, Busch was to stay dry.
To add spice to the whole, bets were laid on the two rivals. Grigoleit conducted the totalisator.
Potter built up a garland of beer glasses around him, and in between little glasses, like diamonds, of Steinhager.
The betting was three to one in his favour. Then Grigoleit signalled the start.
Busch ate away doggedly, bent low over his plate.
Potter fought in an open, upright posture.
With every swig he took he gave Busch an exulting pros't, to which the latter replied with a spiteful look.
"I feel bad," said Georg to me.
"Come out with me."