With the remaining money he could go to his hotel, pay for the night, and redeem his things.) Yet it would also really be nice if he got some more money, maybe ten marks again. He wanted to go there again. Right now.

But first something else occurred to him.

While he was loitering around the train station across the way, he had noticed, with the sharp eyes of a boy that see quickly and sharply everything superficially curious, that besides the toilet there were also washrooms, in which travelers could clean themselves and change clothes. He had nothing to change into, of course, but after these last two days he really needed to wash. He had really been ashamed of himself earlier, everything about him had been so dirty.

So he got up, walked over, found what he was looking for, and after generously adding another fifty to the fifty-penny fee, received soap, a second towel, brush, and comb. He put himself in order, as well as he could. His dirty shirt he tucked under his jacket, leaving his chest bare; his pants he smoothed over his boots. He inspected himself in the mirror, he found (as Max had told him) that he was a quite good-looking boy, who could show himself. Now he would learn whether the two of them—Max and he—were right.

Refreshed, cheered, and with no trace of fear now, he strode to Unter den Linden and sat, not on one of the benches, but instead on one of the rental chairs, not directly opposite the Passage, yet near enough to keep an eye on it and to see what took place there. To begin with, he lit another cigarette.

Acquaintances did not take place so quickly. He would just see how things were done.

He had no suspicion of the acquaintance he was to make this very day, within the next half hour.

*

People streamed by him, including some individual gentlemen. He observed them now, carefully, but none paid attention to him, sitting here with one leg carelessly crossed over the other, comfortably smoking and digesting his meal.

He had just begun to be bored and decided to walk over to the Passage, when three young men came by, talking loudly and laughing. He could not understand what they were saying, but all three were very finely dressed, it seemed to him.

Then he saw how one of the three, after a quick, brief glance at him, stopped, shouted something to the others, made a motion of his hand, as if they were to go on without him, and then, alone, came directly right up to him and without further ado sat down on the chair beside him. To his amazement, he heard himself addressed and a hand was extended to him.

“Hello, Chick! Well, how’s it going with ya? Have ya not got a cigarette for me?”

He thought at first he had not heard correctly, and stared disconcertedly at the hand extended to him.

Then he looked up. It was a slender boy, somewhat older than he—maybe seventeen or eighteen—with brown hair smoothly combed back from his forehead. He had cheerful brown eyes, a strikingly red, painted mouth, and white teeth which, as he laughingly returned the boy’s look, he showed as much as possible.

The boy was still so taken aback at being spoken to that he could only bring out the words, “Do we know one another then?”

The other laughed out loud.

Then, withdrawing his hand, he said in an almost reproachful tone, “Are you really not going to give me a cigarette?”

Again completely disconcerted he could only bring out the package and offer it to him.

“Thanks! One’s enough. For the moment.” He handed the package back. “Light?”

What a fresh guy!

Then he saw how he was being examined from head to foot, critically at first, then more approvingly, and he heard him say, “Now tell me, Chick, how long have you been here in Berlin now?”

And when he again received no answer:

“And just what is your name? First name only, of course!”

This time he had to answer and he did.

“My name is Gunther—” He even found the courage to add, “And what is your name, sir?”

The other only laughed again.

“’Sir’ is good!”

But then again, with well-acted astonishment and again not without a slight reproach:

“What is my name? Mine? Mine? Man, where do you come from, that you don’t know me? I’m Atze, the refined Atze!”

Now Gunther had to laugh too.

Atze! He had never before heard such a funny name.

The ice was broken.

“What does it stand for, Atze’?”

“Atze—well, it just stands for Atze. Or Arthur.”

Leaning over in his chair and now all at once speaking like a Berliner, Atze continued. “Man, you don’t know from nothing! I’ll just have to take the Chick under my wing as quickly as possible, or else he’ll fly wrong. Well, we’ll just take care of that. So, who am I?”

“Atze—the refined Atze,” said Gunther, laughing and taken with a sudden liking for the other boy.

Arm in arm they then walked along the promenade to Friedrichstrasse. His new friend did not seem to be the least concerned about how much they clashed with one another in their clothing.

When they went by the Passage and Gunther unconsciously looked over, his new friend said scornfully, “Passage? A boy who thinks highly of himself just doesn’t go to the Passage!”

Gunther was again astonished.

He was not to come out of his astonishment the whole evening.

First they went to a cafe, not one of the best because of Gunther’s clothes, but still a quite decent one, where they ate pastry and drank a couple of fine liqueurs. Then to a large cinema, and after that finally to a cellar restaurant in a side street, simple but good, where the portions were gigantic. Everywhere, the refined Atze was known, met acquaintances, was spoken to, and was greeted by name. And everywhere, always when Gunther made an attempt to pay, Atze rejected it.

“Just never mind, it will be all right,” and he took care of the whole check.

In the cellar restaurant, at a scrubbed white table, when they were alone, sated and smoking, after a half hour Gunther had told Atze everything—everything that he had to tell—and the other listened quietly and attentively, without interrupting him. He told of his earlier life in the village, Max’s visit, his flight to Berlin, the misery of these last days, and finally also his first experience—that of today.

Atze pricked up his ears at this. He inquired about details, made Gunther describe the appearance of the gentleman as exactly as possible, and finally asked what he had received.

Then he gave his opinion thoughtfully, again as a Berliner:

“Ten marks is not exactly plenty. But in those duds—”

When Gunther finally indicated, about midnight, that he must go to his hotel to sleep, Atze said curtly:

“Sleep? You can sleep at my place,” and he packed him outside into a real automobile. The trip in the taxi was the high point of the evening.