Fritz worked hard as a nailer—“Eight days in the week, thirteen months in the year”—and it paid off, judging by the cut of his funereal black suit, his immaculate linen, his fine homburg, his weighty gold watch chain, and the ten-cent polish on his shoes.

“Coffee for Fritz!”

“Mit schlag!”

“Hear that, waiter? Mit schlag.”

“Vat is the story I interrupt?”

The Locomobile drummer started over again, repeating the beginning about the mixed-up ladies’ gloves and undergarments. “So then the lady who received the panties gets a letter from the fellow who sent her his gift of gloves. Here’s what he wrote.”

Fritz broke in with the last line of the joke: “Whoever sees you in these vill admire my good taste and your delicate looks!”

The table roared with laughter and choruses of “That’s a good one!”

“But it’s a brand-new joke,” protested the drummer from Bridgeport. “How’d you hear it? I came direct to Chicago on the Pennsylvania Limited.”

“I heard it in ’Frisco last veek,” said Fritz.

“’Frisco? How? Did anyone else at the table ever hear it before?”

Salesmen shook their heads. “New to me, Jake.”

The youngest, a Chicago hometown fellow making big money on a line from the Gillette Safety Razor Company, had the explanation: “Electricity is faster than steam.”

“What the heck do you mean by that?” asked the Locomobile representative.

“He means,” said Fritz Wunderlich, “vile you ride the train, your joke flies to San Francisco on the telegraph vire.”

“Who can afford to telegraph jokes?”

“No one goes to the expense. But late at night when the wires are quiet and the operators have nothing else to do, they click jokes to one another.”

The Quaker Oats salesman nodded. “They know their pals by their ‘fists.’ One pal clicks another, city to city, and the jokes get passed along the wire all the way across the continent.”

“Fritz? How are things in Leipzig?”

“I am happy to say that America remains a nation of God-fearing, music-loving churchgoers, so things in Leipzig are very vell indeed. At least among the organ builders, danke. Und you, gentlemen? All are vell?”

“Very well, Fritz. Say, weren’t you trying to sell a new organ to that big church in St. Louis last time? How did that go?”

“Detroit, if I recall. And thank you, it vent O.K.”

“They bought the new organ?”

“Two!”

“Two organs for one church? Why did they buy two?”

Wunderlich’s smile warmed the table, and his response was the drummer’s anthem: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The table roared. Salesmen slapped their thighs. Those indulging in eye-openers signaled the waiters for another round.

“Must go. Time is money. Ja! I almost forget. I took on a new line. Hymnals. Here, sample pages.” He opened a calfskin satchel decorated in solid brass and passed around beautifully printed single sheets.