, he explained, quite as thoroughly as though the late tenant had not gone off without leave, but in quite a different way⁠—an exit instead of an exodus. The uncle inquired what he meant. “Jargon,” said Hans Castorp. “A way we have in the service. Joachim deserted⁠—deserted to the colours⁠—funny, but it can be done. But make haste, or we shall get nothing hot to eat.” In the warm, well-lighted restaurant they sat down facing each other at the raised table in the window. The dwarf waitress served them nimbly, and James ordered a bottle of burgundy, which was presented lying in a basket. They touched glasses, and the grateful glow ran through their veins. The younger talked of life up here, of the events the changing seasons brought in their course, of various personalities among the patients, of the pneumothorax, the functioning of which he explained at length, describing the ghastly nature of the pleura-shock, and citing the case of the good-natured Herr Ferge, with the three-coloured fainting-fits, the hallucinatory stench, and the diabolic laughing-fit when they felt over the pleura. He paid for the meal. James ate and drank heartily, as was his custom⁠—with an appetite still further sharpened by his journey and the change of air.