§ 251 Delivered Through a Middleman
In the year after the Great War started there was a German who ran a saloon in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Close by was a munition factory where explosives were being manufactured for the Allies. As one who had a sympathy for the cause of his Father-land, the German nursed a deep grudge against the neighboring industry. He included the operatives in the plant among his enemies.
One day, as he sat behind his bar, a husky Irishman in overalls entered.
“Say,” he began, “I’d like to open a small account with you. I’d like to come in here for me drinks and on Saturday night whin I get paid off I’ll come over and settle. I’m a square guy and I always pay me debts. How about it?”
“Vell,” said the German, “for my regular gustomers sometimes I put it on der slate; only, you are a stranger to me. Where you work?”
“Right across the street here,” said the Irishman.
“In der munitions factory? Nutt’n doin’!”
“Well, they told me,” said the Irishman, “that you was kinda sore on us fellers over there but I was thinkin’ that if you knew we was makin’ shells for the Germans now maybe you’d act different.”
The Teuton’s face broke into a broad smile.
“For the Chermans now you make ’em, eh? Say, dot’s fine—dot’s pully. Have someding on me. We drink togeder, huh?”
They drank together. Three times more, as rapidly as the Irishman emptied his beer-glass the German replenished it, each time stating that for this festive occasion, at least, there would be no charge for the refreshment. The hospitable rites having been concluded the new patron was moving toward the door when the German was moved to put a question. Until now, in his exuberance, he had forgotten to ask for details:
“Say,” he said, “how you get dose shells over to der Chermans?”
“Well,” said the Irishman, edging a little nearer toward the door, “we don’t exactly send ’em to the Germans direct, you understand.”
“No? Then how you do it?”
“Oh, we sell ’em to the English and they shoot ’em over.”