"'Evening!" growled Rejzek, the journalist, entering the room. "It's cold, friends."
"It's a very pleasant evening," chirped Mr. Binder. "We don't get company like this every day."
"Well, what's the news?" inquired Father Jost gaily. "What's going on in the editorial sanctum? Ah, yes, I used to write for the papers myself in my young days."
"By the way, that fellow Blahous mentioned me in the paper too that time," said Mr. Brych. "I've still go the cutting somewhere: 'The Apostle of Kuzenda's Sect,' or something like that, he called me. Yes, yes, those were the days!"
"Let's have supper," ordered Mr. Rejzek. Mr. Binder and his daughter were already setting sausages on the table. They were still sizzling, covered with frothing bubbles of fat, and they reclined upon crisp sauerkraut like Turkish odalisques on cushions. Father Jost clicked his tongue resoundingly and cut into the first beauty before him.
"Splendid," said Mr. Brych after a while.
"Mhm," came from Mr. Rejzek after a lengthier interval.
"Binder, these do you credit," said the Canon approvingly.
A silence ensued, full of appreciation and pious meditations.
