Tales From Gavagan's Bar Read Online Free PDF

Amtmann for it like the peace justice here. My mother does not like that, she says a wedding by the Amtmann is a no-good, and if Putzi will not marry me by the priest, I should not marry him at all.
     
                  But it is love. [Mrs. Vacarescu sighed, pressed one hand to an ample bosom and drank again.] So one day I run away with Putzi and we get married by the Amtmann, like he says. At first everything is fine, only we are not having picnics no more, because he says he has to concentrate on Sunday afternoons. But all he does is drink beer and look out of this window. And at night he is so funny, always walking bad and forth in the room, and I cannot get him to go over to my mother's house for a piece of strudel and a cup of coffee.
     
                  And that is only the beginning. You know how it is, lad; [she gestured to Mrs. Jonas]; those men will promise you everything till they get what they want, and then where are you? It gets to be like that with Putzi. When I ask where is my castle in Transylvania, he takes me by the arm and shove me into the kitchen and says that is my castle. You got no idea of the things that man does. He don't like the sausages we have for dinner, bang on the floor goes the sausages. He don't like some of my friends that come in for a piece of strudel at night, he says, "Get those dopes out of here before they eat up all the money I make!" Right in front of them, too. When I tell him they are my friends and it is none of his business, he puts on his hat and goes right out the door and that is the last I see of him all night.
     
                  In the morning he comes in as sweet like Christmas cake, and he can't do enough for me, so I know something is wrong, like it always is when your man tries to make up to you more than he has to. So I think maybe he is chasing some woman, and the next time some of my friends are there and he walks out like that and stays all night, I start asking people, have they seen what Putzi is up to. The most I can find out is that he goes to Kettler's Bierstube and drinks beer there half the night and then he goes away again. And every time in the morning he is still half drunk but trying to make up to me like anything.
     
                  He does this once a week for a couple of months till I cannot stand it. So one night I think I will lock the door on him and let the loafer, the bum, stay outside when he gets back.
     
                  I went out to lock the door, but when I get by the hall out, here is a dachshund. It is fat and a good dog. Also, even if I have not seen this dachshund before, I can see it likes me, because it climbs up on its hind legs, so, and tries to lick my hand, and when I try to put it out again, it only comes back.
     
                  So I said, what can I do if it wants to be my dachshund, maybe it will be better company than Putzi. I found me an old piece of rug for it to sleep on, and gave it some water to drink and a piece of the pig's knuckles that was left over from dinner, and then I went back and locked the door.
     
                  But when I wake up in the morning, there is that drunken ninnyhammer of a husband of mine right in the bed, snoring like he was running a steam-engine. This I could not understand because the door is not the kind that just locks, but it has a bolt, and the windows we always close, because the night air is so unhealthy. My mother knew a woman that died of it once, in Szeged.
     
                  And when I get out in the kitchen, there is no dachshund. The only thing I can think of is that when my man came home, he kicked it out, so I asked the big lummox about it when he got up. I should have known better, maybe, because Putzi is like that in the morning, he could bite the head off a horse unless he wants to start talking himself. Anyway, all he said to me was I should shut my big