CHAPTER XVIII 

A MEETING OF SOCIALISTS 

The _brasserie_ into which the two men pushed their way was smaller and less ornate than the one which they had last visited. Many of the tables, too, were laid for supper. The tone of the place was still entirely Teutonic. Kendricks and his companion seated themselves at a table. 

"You will eat sausage?" Kendricks asked. 

"I will eat anything," Julien replied. 

"It is better," Kendricks remarked. "Here from the first we may be watched. We are certainly observed. Be sure that you do not let fall a single word of English. It might be awkward afterwards." 

"It's a beastly language," Julien declared, "but the beer and sausages help. How many of the people here will be at the meeting?" 

"Not a hundredth part of them," Kendricks answered. "It was a terrible job to get these tickets and I wouldn't like to guarantee now that we have them that we get there. Remember, if any questions are asked, you're an American, the editor or envoy of _The Coming Age._" 

"The dickens I am!" Julien exclaimed. "Where am I published?" 

"In New York; you're a new issue." 

Julien ate sausages and bread and butter steadily for several minutes. 

"To me," he announced, "there is something more satisfying about a meal of this description than that two-franc dinner where you stole my chicken." 

"You have Teutonic instincts, without a doubt," Kendricks declared, "but after all, why not a light dinner and an appetite for supper? Better for the digestion, better for the pocket, better for passing the time. What are you staring at?" 
Who is Julien pretending to be?
an American