"Waves mountain-high," cried the agent.

"God reward you a thousand-fold," chuckled the woman.

"Comes to 550 merks, 10 shillings," said Baumann to the principal.

And now the door was vehemently pushed open, and a stoutly-built man entered, with a bag of money under his arm, which he triumphantly deposited on the marble table, exclaiming, with the air of one doing a good action, "Here am I; and here is money!"

Mr. Jordan rose immediately, and said, in a friendly voice, "Good-morning, Mr. Stephen; how goes the world in Wolfsburg?"

"A dreadful hole!" groaned Mr. Braun.

"Where?" inquired Fink.

"Not such a bad place either," said Mr. Stephen; "but little business doing."

"Sixty-five sacks of Cuba," returned the principal to a question of one of the clerks.

Meanwhile, the door opened again, and this time admitted a man-servant and a Jew from Brody. The servant gave the merchant a note of invitation to a dinner-party—the Jew crept to the corner where Fink sat.

"What brings you again, Schmeie Tinkeles?" coldly asked Fink; "I have already told you that we would have no dealings with you."

"No dealings!" croaked the unlucky Tinkeles, in such execrable German that Anton had difficulty in understanding him. "Such wool as I bring has never been seen before in this country."

"How much a hundred weight?" asked Fink, writing, without looking at the Jew.

"What I have already said."

"You are a fool," said Fink; "off with you!"

"Alas!" screamed he of the caftan, "what language is that? 'Off with you!'—there's no dealing so."

"What do you want for your wool?

"41-2/3," said Tinkeles.

"Get out!" suggested Fink.

"Don't go on forever saying 'Get out!'" implored the Jew, in despair; "say what you will give."

"If you ask such unreasonable prices, nothing at all," replied Fink, beginning another sheet.

"Only say what you will give."

"Come, then, if you speak like a rational man," answered Fink, looking at the Jew.

"I am rational," was the low reply; "what will you give?"

"Thirty-nine," said Fink.

At that Schmeie Tinkeles went distracted, shook his black greasy hair, and swore by all he held holy that he could not take it under 41, whereupon Fink signified that he should be put out by one of the servants if he made so much noise. The Jew, therefore, went off in high dudgeon; soon, however, putting his head in again, and asking, "Well, then, what will you give?"

"Thirty-nine," said Fink, watching the excitement he thus raised much as an anatomist might the galvanic convulsions of a frog. The words "thirty-nine" occasioned a fresh explosion in the mind of the Jew; he came forward, solemnly committed his soul to the deepest abyss, and declared himself the most unworthy wretch alive if he took less than 41. As he could not profit by Fink's repeated exhortations to quit, a servant was called. His appearance was so far composing, that Mr. Tinkeles now declared he could go alone, and would go alone; whereupon he stood still, and said 40-1/2. The agent, the provincials, and the whole counting-house watched the progress of the bargain with some curiosity; while Fink, with a certain degree of cordiality, proceeded to counsel the poor Jew to retire without further discussion, seeing that he was an utter fool, and there really was no dealing with him. Once more the Jew went out, and Fink said to the principal, who was reading a letter the while, "He'll let us have the wool if I let him have another half dollar."

"How much is there of it?" asked the merchant.

"Six tons," said Fink.

"Take it," said Mr. Schroeter, reading on.

Again the door opened and shut, the chattering went on, and Anton kept wondering how they could speak of a purchase when the seller had been so decided in his refusal of their terms. Once more the door was gently pushed open, and Tinkeles, creeping behind Fink, laid his hand on his shoulder, and said, in a melancholy but confidential voice, "What will you give, then?"

Fink turned round, and replied with a good-natured smile, "If you please to take it, Tinkeles, 39-1/3; but only on the condition that you do not speak another word, otherwise I retract the offer."

"I am not speaking," answered the Jew. "Say 40."

Fink made a movement of impatience, and silently pointed to the door. The wool-dealer went out once more.

"Now for it!" said Fink.

In a moment or two Tinkeles returned, and, with more composure of manner, brought out "39-1/2, if you will take it at that."

After some appearance of uncertainty, Fink carelessly replied, "So be it, then;" at which Schmeie Tinkeles underwent an utter transformation, behaving like an amiable friend of the firm, and politely inquiring after the health of the principal.

And so it went on; the door creaking, buyers and sellers coming and going, men talking, pens scratching, and money pouring ceaselessly in.

The household of which Anton now formed part appeared to him to be most impressive and singular. The house itself was an irregular and ancient building, with wings, court-yards, out-houses, short stairs, mysterious passages, and deep recesses. In the front part of it were handsome apartments, occupied by the merchant's family. Mr. Schroeter had only been married for a very short time, his wife and child had died within the year, and his sister was now his only near relation.

The merchant adhered rigidly to the old customs of the firm. All the unmarried clerks formed part of the household, and dined with him punctually at one o'clock. On the day after Anton's arrival, a few minutes before that hour, he was taken to be introduced to the lady of the house, and gazed with wonder at the elegance and magnificence of the rooms through which he passed on his way to her presence.

Sabine Schroeter's pale, delicate face, crowned with hair of raven black, shone out very fair above her graceful summer attire. She seemed about Anton's own age, but she had the dignity of a matron.

"My sister governs us all," said the merchant, looking fondly at her. "If you have any wish, make it known to her; she is the good fairy who keeps the house in order."

Anton looked at the fairy, and modestly replied, "Hitherto I have found every thing exceed my wishes."

"Your life will, in time, appear a monotonous one," continued the merchant. "Ours is a rigidly regular house, where you have much work to look forward to, and little recreation. My time is much engrossed; but, if you should ever need advice or assistance, I hope you will apply directly to myself."

This short audience over, he rose and led Anton to the dining-room, where all his colleagues were assembled; next, Sabine entered, accompanied by an elderly lady, a distant relation, who looked very good-natured. The clerks made their obeisance, and Anton took the seat appointed to him at the end of a long table, among the younger of his brethren. Opposite him sat Sabine, beside her brother, then the elderly relative, and next to her, Fink. On the whole, it was a silent dinner. Anton's neighbors said little, and that under their breath; but Fink rattled away with thorough unconcern, told droll stories, mimicked voices and manners, and was exaggerated in his attentions to the good-natured relative. Anton was positively horrified at this freedom, and fancied that the principal did not like it much better. The black-coated domestics waited with the utmost propriety; and Anton rose with the impression that this repast had been the most solemn and stately of which he had ever partaken, and that he should get on with all the household with the exception of "that Von Fink."

One day that they accidentally met on the staircase, Fink, who had not for some time appeared conscious of his existence, stopped and asked him, "Well, Master Wohlfart, how does this house suit you?"

To which Anton replied, "Exceedingly well, indeed. I see and hear so much that is new to me that I have hardly thought of myself as yet."

"You'll soon get accustomed to it," said Fink, laughing; "one day is the same as the other all the year long. On Sunday, an extra good dinner, a glass of wine, and your best coat—that's all. You are one of the wheels in the machine, and will be expected to grind regularly."

"I am aware that I must be industrious in order to merit Mr. Schroeter's confidence," was the rather indignant reply.

"Truly a virtuous remark; but you'll soon see, my poor lad, what a gulf is fixed between the head of the firm and those who write his letters. No prince on earth stands so far removed above his vassals as this same coffee-lord above his clerks. But do not lay much stress on what I say," added he, more good-naturedly; "the whole house will tell you that I am not quite compos. However, I'll give you a piece of good advice. Get an English master, and make some progress before you got rusty. All they teach you here will never make a clever man of you, if you happen to want to be one. Good-night." And, turning upon his heel, he left our Anton somewhat disconcerted.

Indeed, he too, in course of time, began to be conscious of the monotony of a business life, but he did not fret about it, having been taught by his parents habits of industry and order.

Mr. Jordan took much pains to initiate him into the mysteries of divers wares; and the hours that he first spent in the warehouses, amid the varied produce of different lands, were fraught with a certain poetry of their own, as good, perhaps, as any other. There was a large, gloomy, vaulted room on the ground floor, in which lay stores for the traffic of the day. Tuns, bales, chests, were piled on each other, which every land, every race, had contributed to fill. The floating palace of the East India Company, the swift American brig, the patriarchal ark of the Dutchman, the stout-ribbed whaler, the smoky steamer, the gay Chinese junk, the light canoe of the Malay—all these had battled with winds and waves to furnish this vaulted room. A Hindoo woman had woven that matting; a Chinese had painted that chest; a Congo negro, in the service of a Virginian planter, had looped those canes over the cotton bales; that square block of zebra-wood had grown in the primeval forests of the Brazils, and monkeys and bright-hued parrots had chattered among its branches. Anton would stand long in this ancient hall, after Mr. Jordan's lessons were over, absorbed in wonder and interest, till roof and pillars seemed transferred to broad-leaved palm-trees, and the noise of the streets to the roar of the sea—a sound he only knew in his dreams; and this delight in what was foreign and unfamiliar never wore off, but led him to become, by reading, intimately acquainted with the countries whence all these stores came, and with the men by whom they were collected.

Thus the first months of his life in the capital fled rapidly away; and it was well for him that he took so much interest in his studies, for Fink proved right in one respect. In spite of the daily meal in the stately dining-room, Anton remained as great a stranger as ever to the principal and his family. He was too rational, indeed, to murmur at this, but he could not avoid feeling depressed by it; for, with the enthusiasm of youth, he was ready to revere his chief as the ideal of mercantile greatness. He admired his sagacity, decision, energy, and inflexible uprightness, and would have been devoted to him heart and soul, but that he so seldom saw him. When the merchant was not engaged by business, he lived for his sister, whom he most tenderly loved. For her he kept a carriage and horses which he himself never used, and gave evening parties to which Anton and his colleagues were not invited. Gay equipages rolled in one after the other, liveried servants ran up and down stairs, and graceful shadows flitted across the windows, while Anton sat in his little upper chamber, and yearned eagerly after the brilliant gayeties in which he had no part. True, his reason told him that they did not belong to men of his class, but at nineteen reason is not always supreme; and many a time he went back with a sigh from his window to his books, and tried to forget the alluring strains of the quadrille and waltz in the descriptions of the lion's roar and the bull-frog's croak in the far-off tropics.



CHAPTER VI.

The Baron of Rothsattel had moved to his town residence. It was not indeed large, but its furniture, the arabesques on its walls, the arrangement of its hangings were so graceful, that it ranked as a model of comfort and elegance. The baron had made all his preparations in silence. At length the day came when the new carriage stopped at the door, and, lifting down his wife, he led her through the suite of apartments to her own little boudoir, all fitted up with white silk. Enchanted beyond measure, she flew into his arms, and he felt as proud and happy as a king. They were soon perfectly settled, and able to begin their course of visiting.

It was the custom of a large portion of the nobility to spend the winter in town, and accordingly the Rothsattels met many friends, and several of their acquaintance. Every one was pleased to welcome them, and after a few weeks they found themselves immersed in gayety. The baroness soon became a leader of the feminine world, and her husband, after at first missing his walks through his farm and his woods, began to take equal pleasure in reviving his youthful acquaintance. He became member of a nobleman's club, indulged his virtuoso tendencies, played whist, and filled his idle hours with a little politics and a little art. And so the winter passed pleasantly on, and the baron and his wife often wondered why they had not earlier indulged in this agreeable variety.

Lenore was the only one dissatisfied with the change. She continued to justify her mother's fear lest she should become an original. She found it difficult to pay proper respect to the numberless elderly cousins of the family, and still more difficult to refrain from accosting first any pleasant gentleman she had known in the country, and now chanced to meet in the streets. Likewise, the Young Lady's Institution, which she had to attend, was in many ways objectionable to her. She had certain maps and tiresome lesson-books to take to and fro, and her mother did not approve of the servants' time being occupied in carrying them after her. One day, when walking like an angry Juno—the tokens of her slavery upon her arm, and her little parasol in her hand—she beheld the young gentleman to whom she had shown her flower-garden coming to meet her, and she rejoiced at it, for he was pleasantly associated in her mind with home, the pony, and the family of swans. He was still some way off when her hawk's eye discerned him, but he did not see her even when he came nearer. As her mother had forbidden her ever to accost a gentleman in the street, there was nothing for it but to stand still and to strike her parasol on the flags.

Anton looked up and saw to his pleasant surprise the lovely lady of the lake. Blushing, he took off his hat, and Lenore observed with satisfaction that, in spite of the satchel on her arm, she impressed him as much us ever.

"How are you, sir?" she inquired, in a dignified way.

"Very well," replied Anton; "how delighted I am to see you in town!"

"We are living here at present," said the young lady, with less stateliness, "at No. 20 Bear Street."

"May I inquire for the pony?" said Anton, respectfully.

"Only think, he had to be left behind!" was the sorrowful reply; "and what are you doing here?"

"I am in the house of T. O. Schroeter," said Anton, bowing.

"Oh! a merchant; and what do you deal in?"

"In colonial produce. It is the largest firm in that department in the whole town," replied Anton, complacently.

"And have you met with kind people who take care of you?"

"My principal is very kind, but I must take care of myself."

"Have you any friends here with whom you can amuse yourself?"

"A few acquaintances. But I have much to do, and I must improve myself in my leisure hours."

"You look rather pale," said the young lady, with motherly interest; "you should move more about, and take long walks. I am glad to have met you, and shall be pleased to hear of your well-doing," added she, majestically; and, with an inclination of her pretty little head, she vanished in the crowd, while Anton remained gazing after her, hat in hand.

Lenore did not consider it necessary to mention this meeting. But a few days later, when the baroness happened to inquire where they should get some necessary stores, she looked up from her book and said, "The largest firm here is that of T. O. Schroeter, dealer in colonial produce."

"How do you know that?" inquired her father, laughing; "you speak like an experienced merchant."

"All the result of the Young Lady's Institution," answered Lenore, pertly.

Meanwhile, in the midst of his social pleasures, the baron did not forget the chief end of his town life. He made close inquiries as to the speculations of other landed proprietors, visited the factories in the town, became acquainted with educated manufacturers, and acquired some knowledge of machinery. But the information thus gained was so contradictory, that he thought it best not to precipitate matters, but to wait till some specially advantageous and safe undertaking should offer.

We must not omit to mention that about this time the family property was increased by a small, handsome, brass-inlaid casket, with a lock that defied any thief's power of opening, so that, if minded to steal, he would have nothing for it but to carry off the casket itself. In it were laid forty-five thousand dollars in the form of new promissory notes. The baron contemplated these with much tenderness. At first he would sit for hours opposite the open casket, never weary of arranging the parchment leaves according to their numbers, delighting in their glossy whiteness, and forming plans for paying off the capital; and even when, for safety's sake, the casket had been made over to the keeping of the Joint-stock Company, the thought of it was a continual pleasure. Nay, the spirit of the casket began to peep out even in household arrangements. The baroness was surprised at her husband counseling certain economies, or telling with a degree of pleasure of ten louis d'or won last evening at cards. She was at first a little afraid that he had become in some way embarrassed; but, as he assured her, with a complacent smile, that this was far from being the case, she soon learned to treat these little attempts at saving as an innocent whim, especially as they only extended to trifling details, the baron insisting as much as ever upon keeping up a dignified and imposing social appearance. Indeed, it was impossible for him to retrench just now. The town life, the furnishing of the house, and the necessary claims of society, of course increased the outgoings.

And so it came to pass that the baron, after having paid a visit to his property to settle the yearly accounts, returned to town much out of tune. He had become aware that the expenditure of the last year had exceeded the income, and that the income of the next year gave no promise of balancing the existing deficit of two thousand dollars. The thought occurred that the sum must be taken from the white parchments; and the man who would have stood calm beneath a shower of bullets, broke out into a cold perspiration at the idea of the debts thus to be incurred. It was plain that there had been an error in his calculations. He who wishes to raise a sum by small yearly savings must not increase, but lessen his expenditure. True, the increase in his case had been unavoidable; but still, a most unlucky coincidence. The baron had not felt such anxiety since his lieutenant-days. There were a thousand good reasons, however, against giving up the town house; it was rented for a term of years; and then, what would his acquaintance say? So he kept his troubles to himself; quieted the baroness by talking of a cold caught on his journey; but all day long the same thought kept gnawing at his heart. Sometimes in the evening he was able to drive it away a while, but it was sure to return in the morning.

It was one of these weary mornings that Mr. Ehrenthal, who had to pay for some grain, was announced. The very name was at that moment unpleasant to the baron, and his greeting was colder than usual; but the man of business did not mind little ups and downs of temper, paid his money, and was profuse in expressions of devoted respect, which all fell coldly, till, just before going away, he inquired, "Did the promissory notes duly arrive?"

"Yes," was the ungracious reply.

"It is sad," cried Ehrenthal, "to think of forty-five thousand dollars lying dead. To you, baron, a couple of thousands or so is a mere trifle, but not to one of my sort. At this moment I might speculate boldly, and safely too; but all my money being locked up, I must lose a clear four thousand." The baron listened attentively; the trader went on: "You have known me, baron, for years past, to be a man of honor, and of some substance too; and now I will make a proposition to you. Lend me for three months ten thousand dollars' worth of promissory notes, and I will give you a bill of exchange, which is as good as money. The speculation should bring in four thousand dollars, and that I will divide with you in lieu of interest. You will run no risk; if I fail, I will bear the loss myself, and pay back the principal in three months."

However uninteresting these words may appear to the reader, they threw the baron into such a state of joyous excitement that he could scarce command himself sufficiently to say, "First of all, I must know what sort of a bargain it is that you wish to drive with my money." Ehrenthal explained. The offer of purchasing a quantity of wood had been made to him, which wood lay on a raft in an upper part of the province. He would take all the expense of transport on himself; and he proceeded to demonstrate the certain profit of the transaction.

"But," said the baron, "how comes it that the present proprietor does not carry out this profitable scheme himself?"

Ehrenthal shrugged his shoulders. "He who means to speculate must not always inquire the reason of bargains. An embarrassed man can not wait two or three months; the river is at present frozen, and he wants the money in two or three days."

"Are you sure that his right to sell is incontestable?"

"I know the man to be safe," was the reply; "and that, if I pay him this evening, the wood is mine."

Now it was painful to the baron, much as he wanted money, to turn the embarrassment of another to his own profit; and he said, "I consider it unfair to reckon upon what is certain loss to the seller."

"Why should it be certain loss?" cried Ehrenthal. "He is a speculator—he wants money; perhaps he has a greater bargain still in his eye. He has offered me the whole quantity of wood for ten thousand dollars, and I have no business to inquire whether he can or can not make more of my money than I of his wood."

And so far Ehrenthal was right; but this was not all. The seller was an unlucky speculator, pressed by his creditors, threatened with an execution, and determined to frustrate their hopes by driving an immediate bargain with a stranger, and then making off with the money. Perhaps Ehrenthal knew this; perhaps the baron too surmised that there must be a mystery, for he shook his head. And yet he ran no risk, incurred no responsibility; he but lent his money to a safe man, whom he had known for years, and in a short time he should get rid of the evil genius that tormented him ceaselessly. Too much excited to reflect whether this was not a casting out of devils by Beelzebub, their chief, he rang the bell for his carriage, and said, in a lordly tone, "You shall have the money in an hour."

From that day the baron led a life of anxious suspense. He was always going over this interview, always thinking of the piles of wood; and, whenever he rode out, his horse's head was turned to the river, that he might watch the progress of the thaw.

He had not seen Ehrenthal for some time. At length he came one morning with his endless bows, and, taking out a large packet, said triumphantly, "Well, baron, the affair is settled. Here are your notes, and here the two thousand dollars, your share of the profit."

The baron snatched the packet. Yes; they were the very same parchments he had taken out of the casket with so heavy a heart, and a bundle of bank-notes besides. A weight fell from him. The parchments were safe, the deficit made up. Ehrenthal was courteously dismissed. That very day the baron bought a turquoise ornament for his wife, which she had long silently wished for, and sunshine prevailed in the family circle.

But a dark shadow from the recent past had yet to fall athwart it. The baron, reading the paper one day in his wife's room, observed an advertisement concerning a bankrupt dealer in wood, who had made his escape after swindling his creditors. He laid down the paper, and the drops stood on his brow. "If it should be the same man!"

Ehrenthal had given no name. Had he, a man of honor, been the means of defrauding just claims; had he taken part in a swindling transaction, ay, and gained by it too! The thought was too fearful. He hurried to his desk that he might pack up and send off the accursed profits—whither he knew not, but any where, away. He saw with horror that only a small portion of them remained. In extreme agitation, he rang the bell, and sent for Ehrenthal.

As chance would have it, Ehrenthal was gone on a journey. Meanwhile arose those soothing inward voices which know so well how to place things doubtful in a favorable light. "How foolish this anxiety! There were hundreds of dealers in wood in that part of the country; and was it likely that this very man should be Ehrenthal's client? Or, even if he were, in a business point of view, how could they help the use he might make of their money? Nothing could be fairer than the transaction itself." Thus the voices within; and oh! how attentively the baron listened.

But still, when Ehrenthal at length appeared, the baron met him with an expression that positively appalled him. "What was the name of the man from whom you bought the wood?" cried he.

Ehrenthal had read the newspaper too, and the truth now flashed upon him. He gave a name at once.

"And the place where the wood lay?"

Ehrenthal named that too.

"Are you telling me the truth?" asked the baron, drawing a third deep breath.

Ehrenthal saw that he had a sick conscience to deal with, and treated the case with the utmost gentleness. "What is the baron uneasy about?" said he, shaking his head; "I believe that the man with whom I dealt has made a good profit out of the affair. Nothing could be more fair than the whole transaction. But, even had it not been so, why, my good sir, should you be troubled? There was no reason why I should not tell you the names, both of the man and place, before; but I did not do so, because the bargain was mine, not yours. I became your debtor, and I have repaid you with a bonus—a large one, it is true; but I have dealt with you for years, and why should I keep back from you the share of profit which I should have had to give any one else?"

"That is all right, Ehrenthal," said the baron, more graciously; "and I am glad that the case stands thus. But, had this man been the bankrupt in question, I should have broken off our connection, and should never have forgiven you for involving me in a fraudulent transaction."

Ehrenthal bowed himself out, muttering, as he went down stairs, "He's a good man, this baron; a good, good man."



CHAPTER VII.

We now return to Anton, who had been placed under the joint command of Messrs. Jordan and Pix, and who found himself the small vassal of a great body corporate, containing a variety of grades and functions little dreamed of by the uninitiated. First in the counting-house was the book-keeper Liebold, who, as minister of the home department, reigned supreme and solitary in a window of his own, forever recording figures in a colossal book, and seldom looking off their columns.

In the opposite part of the room ruled the second dignitary in the state, the cashier Purzel, surrounded by iron safes, heavy bags, and with a large stone table before him, on which dollars rung, or gray paper money fell noiselessly the whole day through.

Jordan was the principal person in the office. He was the head clerk, and his opinion was sometimes asked by the principal himself. In him Anton found, from the day of his arrival, a good adviser, and an example of activity and healthy common sense.

Of all the clerks under Jordan's superintendence, the most interesting to Anton was Baumann, the future missionary. Not only was he a truly religious man, he was an admirable and infallible accountant. But, besides all these, the firm had some officials who did not live in the house. One was Birnbaum, the custom-house clerk, who was seldom visible in the office, and only dined with the principal on Sundays. Then there was the head of the warehouse department, Mr. Balbus, who, though by no means a cultivated man, was always treated by the chief with great respect; and, as Anton heard it said, had a mother and sick sister entirely dependent upon him.

But of all these men, the most aggressively active, the most despotic in his measures, was Pix, the manager of the provincial traffic department. His domain began in the office, and extended throughout the house, and far into the street. He was the divinity of all the country shopkeepers, who looked upon him as the real head of the business. He arranged the whole exports of the house, knew every thing, was always to be found, and could do half a dozen things at once. Like all dignitaries, he was impatient of contradiction, and fought for his opinions against the merchant himself with a stiff-neckedness that often horrified Anton. One of his peculiarities was that of abhorring a vacuum as much as nature herself. Wherever there was an empty corner, a closet, a cellar, a recess to be discovered, there Pix would intrude with tuns, ladders, ropes, and all imaginable commodities; and wherever he and his giant band of porters had once got a footing, no earthly power could dislodge them—not even the principal himself.

"Where is Wohlfart?" called Mr. Schroeter from the door of his office.

"Up stairs," calmly replied Pix.

"What is he doing there?" was the amazed inquiry.

At that moment loud voices were heard, and Anton came thundering down the steps, followed by a servant, and both laden with cigar-boxes, while behind them appeared the female relative in much excitement.

"They will not tolerate us up stairs," said Anton, hurriedly, to Pix.

"Now they have actually come to the laundry," said the lady, just as hurriedly, to the principal.

"The cigars can not stand down here," declared Pix to both.

"And I will not have cigars in the laundry," cried the distant cousin. "I declare there is not a place in the house safe from Mr. Pix. He has filled the maid-servants' rooms with cigars, and they complain that the smell is intolerable."

"It is dry up there," explained Mr. Pix to the merchant.

"Could you not, perhaps, place them elsewhere?" inquired the latter, respectfully.

"Impossible!" was the decided reply.

"Do you really require the whole laundry, my dear cousin?" said the principal, turning to the lady.

"The half of it were ample," interpolated Pix.

"I hope, Pix, you will content yourself with a corner," said the head of the firm, by way of decision. "Tell the carpenter to run up a partition at once."

"If Mr. Pix once gets admittance, he will take the whole of our laundry," expostulated the too experienced cousin.

"It is the last concession we will make," was the reply.

Mr. Pix laughed silently—or grinned rebelliously, as the lady phrased it; and, as soon as the authorities were out of sight, sent Anton up again with the cigar-boxes.

But what chiefly constituted the importance of Pix in the eyes of the community were the Herculean porters under his command. When these men rolled mighty casks about, and lifted hundred weights like pounds, they seemed to the new apprentice like the giants of fairy lore. Some of them belonged to this firm exclusively, others to a corporation of porters who worked for different houses, but T. O. Schroeter's was the house they liked best. For more than one generation the head of this particular firm had enjoyed their highest consideration, and stood godfather to all their large-headed babies.

Among these men, the strongest and tallest was Sturm, their chief—a man who could hardly get through narrow streets, and was frequently called to move a weight found impracticable by his comrades. Wonderful stories were told of his exploits; and Specht affirmed that there was nothing on earth beyond his powers.

His relations with the firm were very intimate indeed; and having an only child, upon whom he doted, and who had early lost his mother, he placed him, at the age of fifteen, in T. O. Schroeter's house, in a nondescript capacity. The boy was a universal favorite, knew every hole and corner, collected all the nails and pieces of packthread, folded all the packing-paper, fed Pluto the watch-dog, and did sundry other odd jobs. Up to every thing, invariably good-humored and ready-witted, the porters fondly called him "our Karl;" and his father often glanced aside from his work to look at him with delight.

But in one point Karl did disappoint him: he gave no promise of ever attaining to his father's stature. He was a handsome, fair-haired, rosy-cheeked youth; but all the giants agreed that he would never be more than a middle-sized man; and so his father fell into the habit of treating him like a sort of delicate dwarf, with the utmost consideration, and a certain touch of compassion.

"I don't care," said the indulgent parent to Mr. Pix, when introducing the boy into the business, "what the little fellow learns besides, so that he does learn to be honorable and practical." This was a speech after Mr. Pix's own heart; and this system of education was at once begun by Sturm taking his son into the great vaulted room, and saying, "Here are the almonds and the raisins—taste them."

"Oh, they are good, father," cried the boy.

"I believe you, Liliputian," nodded Sturm. "Now, see, you may eat as many of them as you like; neither Mr. Schroeter, Mr. Pix, nor I shall interfere. But, my little lad, you had better see how long you can hold out without beginning. The longer the better for yourself, and the more honor in it; and when you can stand it no longer, come to me and say 'Enough;'" upon which he left him, having laid his great turnip of a watch on a chest standing by. The boy proudly placed his hands in his pockets, and walked up and down among the goods. After more than two hours, he came, watch in hand, to his father, exclaiming "Enough."

"Two hours and a half," said old Sturm, nodding at Mr. Pix. "Very well, child; come and nail up this chest; here is a new hammer for you; it cost tenpence."

"It's not worth it," was the reply. "You always pay too much." Such was Karl's education.

The day after Anton's arrival, Pix had introduced him to Sturm, and Anton had said, in a tone of respect, "this is my first experience of business; pray give me a hint whenever you can."

"Every thing is to be learned in time," replied the giant; "yonder is my little boy, who has got on capitally in a year. So your father was not a merchant?"

"My father was an accountant; he is dead," was the reply.

"I am sorry to hear it," said Sturm; "but you have still the comfort of a mother?"

"My mother, too, is dead."

"Alas! alas!" cried the porter, compassionately. He went on shaking his head for a long time, and at length added, in a low voice, to his Karl, "He has no mother."

"And no father either," rejoined Karl.

"Be kind to him, little one," said old Sturm; "you are a sort of orphan yourself."

"Not I," cried Karl; "any one with such a great father as mine to look after has his hands full."

"Why, you are a perfect little monster!" said his father, cheerfully hammering away at a cask.

From that hour Karl showed all manner of small attentions to Anton, and a species of affectionate intimacy sprang up between the two youths.

Indeed, Anton was on excellent terms with all the officials. He listened attentively to Jordan's sensible remarks, was prompt and unconditional in his obedience to Mr. Pix, entered into political discussions with Specht, read with interest Baumann's missionary reports, never asked Mr. Purzel for money in advance, and often encouraged Mr. Liebold to utter some palpable truth without retracting the statement. There was only one with whom he could not get on well, and that was the volunteer clerk, Fink.

One gloomy afternoon, Mr. Jordan chanced to give our hero a certain message to take to another house, and, as he rose, Fink looked up from his desk, and said to Jordan, "Just send him at the same time to the gunsmith—the good-for-nothing fellow can send my gun by him."

Our hero crimsoned. "Do not give me that commission," said he to Jordan; "I shall not execute it."

"Really!" asked Fink, in amazement; "and why not, my fine fellow?"

"I am not your servant," replied Anton, bitterly. "Had you requested me to do this for you, I might have complied; but I will take no orders from you."

"Dolt!" muttered Fink, and went on writing.

The whole office had heard him, and every eye turned to Anton, whose eyes flashed as he exclaimed, "You have insulted me—I will not bear an insult from any one—you must explain yourself."

"I am not fond of giving any one a thrashing," said Fink, negligently.

"Enough!" cried Anton, turning deadly pale; "you shall hear farther;" and off he rushed to deliver Jordan's message.

A cold rain was falling, but Anton was not aware of it: he felt nothing but an agonizing sense of insult and wrong. As he reached the establishment he sought, he saw his principal's carriage at the door, and as he came out again he met Sabine just about to enter it. He could not avoid handing her in; and, struck with his appearance, she asked him what was the matter.

"A trifle," was the reply.

Insignificant as the incident was, it changed Anton's mood. Her courteous greeting and kindly inquiry raised his spirits. He felt that he was no longer a helpless child; and, raising his hand to heaven, his resolve was taken.

On his return to the office, he quietly went on with his work, heedless of the inquiring glances around him; and, when the office was closed, he hurried to Jordan's room, where Pix and Specht were already met. They all treated him with a commiseration not quite free from contempt; but he, having inquired from Jordan, in their presence, whether Fink had any right to give him such an order, and whether in his (Jordan's) opinion he had done wrong in resenting it, and having been satisfactorily answered on both heads, requested a few moments' private conversation, and then proceeded to declare that he should demand a public apology from Fink.

"Which he will never consent to," said Jordan, with a shake of the head.

"In that case I challenge him, either with sword or pistols."

Now, if Jordan had seen a dusky vapor rise from his ink-bottle, and take the form of a hideous genie, after the manner of fairy tales, and this genie had announced his intention of strangling him on the spot, he could not have been more amazed. "The devil is in you, Wohlfart," said he at last; "you want to fight a duel with Herr von Fink, a dead shot, while you are only an apprentice, and not half a year in the business: impossible."

"I should now be a student if I had not been brought up to be a merchant. Curses on business, if it so degrades me that I can not even ask satisfaction for insult. I shall go to Mr. Schroeter at once, and give in my resignation."

Jordan's surprise increased. Here was the good-natured apprentice transformed before his eyes. At length it was agreed that he should take the message; but Fink was not found at home. "Very possibly he has forgotten all about it, and is amusing himself at some club or other," was Jordan's commentary on the fact.

"In that case," said Anton, "I shall at once write to him, and have the letter laid on his table."

Meanwhile great conferences were held in Jordan's room; for, although Pix and Specht had promised secrecy, they indulged in such dark and mysterious hints that the truth was soon known. Baumann stole up to Anton to implore him not to peril two human lives for the sake of a rough word; and, when he was gone, Anton found a New Testament on his table, open at the words, "Bless them that curse you." Although not exactly in the mood to enter into their spirit, he took up the sacred book, and, having read the passages his good mother so often repeated to him, he prepared for bed in a softened frame of mind.

Meanwhile, a rumor of some impending catastrophe pervaded the whole house.

Sabine was in her treasure-chamber. Along its walls stood great oaken presses, richly carved; in the middle, a table with twisted legs, and a few old-fashioned chairs around. On the shelves of the presses appeared piles of linen, and rows of glass, china, and plate, collected by the taste of more than three generations. The air was fragrant with old lavender and recent eau de Cologne. Here Sabine reigned supreme. She herself took out and replaced whatever was wanted, and was not fond of admitting any other person. She was now standing at the table, which was covered with newly-washed linen, and, as she looked over the arabesques of the exquisitely fine table-napkins, a cloud passed over her brow. Two, three, four holes! She rang for the servant.

"It is intolerable, Franz," said she; "there are three spoiled now in No. 24; one of the gentlemen runs his fork through the napkins. There is surely no need for that here."

"That there is not," was the indignant reply; "the plate is under my own care."

"Which of the gentlemen is so reckless?" asked Sabine, severely.

"It is Herr von Fink," was the reply; "he has a habit of constantly running his fork through the napkins. It goes to my heart, Miss Sabine; but what can I do?"

Sabine hung her head. "I knew that it was he," she sighed; "but we can not go on thus. I will give you a set for Herr von Fink's use, and we must sacrifice it." She went to the cupboard, and began to look for one, but the choice was difficult; the beautiful table-linen was dear to her heart. At length, with a lingering look at the pattern, she sorrowfully laid a set on the servant's arm.

Franz still lingered. "He has burned a curtain in his bed-room," said he; "the pair is spoiled."

"And they were quite new!" sighed Sabine again. "Take them away to-morrow. What more, Franz? What else has happened?"

"Ah! ma'am," replied the servant, mysteriously, "Herr von Fink has insulted Herr Wohlfart, who is quite raging, and Herr Specht says there is to be a duel."

"A duel!" cried Sabine; "you must have misunderstood Herr Specht."

"No, indeed, ma'am, it's all too true. Something dreadful will happen. Herr Wohlfart brushed past me angrily, and did not touch his tea."

"Has my brother returned?"

"He does not come back till late to-day; he is on committee."

"Very well," said Sabine; "say nothing about it, Franz, to any one."

And Sabine sat down again at the table, but the damask was forgotten. "So that was what made poor Wohlfart look so sad! This wild youth—he came to us like a whirlwind, and the blossoms all fall in his path. His whole life is confusion and excitement, and he carries away with him all who approach within his reach. Even me—even me! Do what I will, I too feel his spell—so beautiful, so brilliant, so strange. He is always grieving me, and yet all day long I am thinking and caring about him. Oh, my mother! it was in this room that I sat at your feet for the last time when, with your hand on my head, you prayed that Heaven might shield me from every sorrow. Beloved mother, shield thy daughter against her own beating heart. Strengthen me against him, his ensnaring levity, his daring mockery."

Long did Sabine sit thus, communing with her guardian spirits. Then wiping her eyes, she resolutely returned to count and arrange the table-linen.

Anton had got into bed, and was just going to put out his candle, when a loud knock was heard at the door, and the man he least expected stood before him—Herr von Fink himself, with his riding-whip, and his usual careless manner. "Ah! in bed already!" said he, sitting astride on a chair close by. "I am sorry to disturb you. You have written me a very spirited letter, and Jordan has told me the rest, so I am come to answer you in person."

Anton was silent, and looked darkly at him.

"You are all good and very sensitive people," continued Fink, whipping his boots; "I am sorry that you took my words so to heart, but I am glad you have so much spirit."

"Before I listen further," said Anton, angrily, "I must know whether it is your intention to make an apology to me before the other gentlemen. Perhaps a more experienced man would not consider this sufficient, but it would satisfy me."

"There you are right," nodded Fink; "you may be quite satisfied."

"Will you make this apology to-morrow morning?" inquired Anton.

"Why should I not? I don't want to fight with you, and I will declare before the assembled firm that you are a hopeful young man, and that I was wrong to insult one younger and—forgive me the expression—much greener than myself."

Our hero listened with mingled feelings, and then declared that he was not satisfied with this explanation.

"Why not?" asked Fink.

"Your manner at this moment is unpleasant to me; you show me less respect than is conventional. I know that I am young, have seen little of the world, and that in many points you are my superior; but, for these very reasons, it would better become you to behave differently."

Fink stretched out his hand good-humoredly, and said in reply, "Do not be angry with me, and give me your hand."

"I can not do so yet," cried Anton, with emotion; "you must first assure me that you do not treat the matter thus because you consider me too young or too insignificant, or because you are noble and I am not."

"Hark ye, Master Wohlfart," said Fink, "you are running me desperately hard. However, we'll settle these points too. As for my German nobility"—he snapped his fingers—"I would not give that for it; and as for your youth and position, all I can say is, that, after what I have seen this evening, the next time we quarrel I will fight you with any murderous weapon that you may prefer." And again he held out his hand, and said, "Now, then, take it; we have settled every thing."

Anton laid his hand in his, and Fink, having heartily shaken it, wished him good-night.

The following morning, the clerks being all assembled earlier than usual, Fink made his appearance last, and said, in a loud voice, "My lords and gentlemen of the export and home-trade, I yesterday behaved to Mr. Wohlfart in a manner that I now sincerely regret. I have already apologized to him, and I repeat that apology in your presence; and beg to say that our friend Wohlfart has behaved admirably throughout, and that I rejoice to have him for a colleague." At this the clerks smiled, Anton shook hands with Fink, Jordan with both of them, and the affair was settled.

But it had its results. It raised Anton's position in the opinion of his brother officials, and entirely changed his relation to Fink, who, a few days after, as they were running up stairs, stopped and invited him into his own apartment, that they might smoke a friendly cigar.

It was the first time that Anton had crossed the threshold of the volunteer, and he stood amazed at the aspect of his room. Handsome furniture all in confusion, a carpet soft as moss, on whose gorgeous flowers cigar-ashes were recklessly strewed. On one side a great press full of guns, rifles, and other weapons, with a foreign saddle and heavy silver spurs hanging across it; on the other, a large book-case, handsomely carved, and full of well-bound books, and above, the outspread wings of some mighty bird.

"What a number of books you have!" cried Anton, in delight.

"Memorials of a world in which I no longer live."

"And those wings—are they a part of those memorials?"

"Yes, they are the wings of a condor. I am proud of them, as you see," answered Fink, offering Anton a packet of cigars, and propelling a great arm-chair toward him with his foot. "And now let us have a chat. Are you knowing in horses?"

"No," said Anton.

"Are you a sportsman?"

"Not that either."

"Are you musical?"

"Very slightly so," said Anton.

"Why, what specialities have you, then, in Heaven's name?"

"Few in your sense of the word," answered Anton, indignantly. "I can love those who please me, and can, I believe, be a true friend; I can also resent insolence."

"Very well," said Fink, "I am quite aware of that. I know there is plenty of spirit in you. Now let me hear what fate has hurled you into this dreary tread-mill, where all must at last go dusty and resigned, like Liebold, or, at best, punctual and precise, like Jordan."

"It was a kind fate, after all," replied Anton, and began to tell the story of his life.

Fink kept nodding approvingly, and then said, "After all, the greatest difference between us is that you remember your mother, and I do not mine. I have known people who found less love in their home than you have done."

"You have seen so much of the world," pleaded Anton; "pray let me hear how you chanced to come here."

"Very simply," began Fink; "I have an uncle at New York, one of the aristocrats of the Exchange. When I was fourteen, he wrote to my father to send me over, as he meant to make me his heir. My father was a thorough merchant. I was packed up and sent across. In New York I soon became an accomplished scapegrace, was up to every species of folly, and kept race-horses at an age when German boys eat bread and butter, and play with tops in the streets. I had my favorite danseuses and cantatrices, and so bullied my servants, both white and black, that my uncle had enough to do to bribe them into taking it quietly. My friends had torn me from my home without consulting my feelings, and I did not care a straw for theirs. In short, I was the most renowned of the young scamps who pique themselves upon their devilry on the other side the water. It was on one of my birth-days that, returning home from a certain petit souper, the thought suddenly struck me that this career must come to an end, or it would end me. So I went to the harbor instead of to my uncle's house, and having, on my way, bought a coarse sailor's dress and put it on, I hired myself to an English captain. We sailed round Cape Horn, and when we reached Valparaiso I thanked the Englishman for my passage, treated the crew, and jumped on shore with twenty doubloons in my pocket, to make my fortune by the strength of my arm. I soon fell in with an intelligent man, who took me to his hacienda, where I won my laurels as herdsman. I was about half a year with him, and liked the life. I was treated as a useful guest, and much admired as sportsman and horseman. What did I need further? We were just going to have a great buffalo hunt, when suddenly two soldiers made their appearance on the scene, and trotted me off with them to the town, where I was made over to the American consul; and as my uncle had moved heaven and earth to track me, and as I found, from a long letter he had written, that my father was really unhappy, I resolved to return to Europe by the next ship. I at once told my father that I did not mean to be a merchant, but an agriculturist. At this the firm of Fink and Becker went distracted; but I stood to my point. At last we came to a compromise. I went for two years to a business-house in North Germany; then I came here to learn office-work, through which discipline they hope to tame me. So here I am now in a cloister. But it's all in vain. I humor my father by sitting here, but I shall only stay long enough to convince him that I am right, and then I shall take to agriculture."

"Will you buy land in this country?" inquired Anton.

"Not I," returned Fink; "I prefer riding half the day without coming to the end of my property."

"Then you mean to return to America?"

"There or elsewhere. I am not particular as to hemisphere. Meanwhile, I live like a monk, as you see," said Fink, laughing, as he mixed for himself a fiery potion, and pushed the bottle to Anton. "Brew for yourself, my lad," said he; "and let us chat away merrily, as becomes good fellows and reconciled foes."

From that evening forth Fink treated our hero with a friendship that he showed to none of the other clerks. He often took him into his room, and even went up the long staircase to his. Anton soon discovered that his new friend was a well-known character in the town—a perfect despot among the fashionables, and the leader of all riding and hunting parties given. Accordingly, he was much in society, and often did not come home till morning. Anton could not help admiring the strength and energy of this man, who could take his place at the desk after only two or three hours' sleep without showing a trace of fatigue. Fink also departed from the rigid regularity of the house by sometimes appearing after office-hours had begun, or leaving before they ended. Of this, however, Mr. Schroeter took no notice.

Thus the winter passed away, and signs of spring penetrated even here. The visitors no longer brought in snow-flakes, but left brown footmarks. The brokers began to speak of the yellow blossoms of the olive, and at length Mr. Braun came in with a rose in his button-hole.

A year was gone since Anton crossed the little lake with the fleet of swans behind him. The whole year through he had thought of that one day.



CHAPTER VIII.

Veitel Itzig still occupied the same sleeping-quarters as on the evening of his arrival. If, according to the assertions of the police, every man must have some home or other—and, according to popular opinion, our home be where our bed stands—Veitel was remarkably little at his home. Whenever he could slip away from Ehrenthal's, he would wander about the streets, and watch for such youths as were likely to buy from or sell to him. He had always a few dollars to rattle in his pocket. He never addressed the rawest of schoolboys but as a grown-up man; he was a proficient in the art of bowing, could brighten up old brass and silver as good as new, was always ready to buy old black coats, and possessed the skill of giving them a degree of gloss which insured their selling again.

With every bargain that he made for Ehrenthal he combined one for himself, and soon won a reputation that excited the envy of gray-bearded fripperers. He did not confine his activity to any one department either, but became a horse-dealer's agent, the employe of secret money-lenders—nay, a money-lender himself. Then he had the faculty of never getting tired, was all day on his feet, would run any length for a few pence, and never resented a harsh word. He allowed himself no other recreation than that of counting over his different transactions and their probable results. He lived upon next to nothing; a slice or two of bread abducted from Ehrenthal's kitchen would serve for his supper. Only once during the first year of his town life did he allow himself a glass of thin small beer, and that after a very profitable bargain.

He was always remarkably neat in his attire, considering it essential that a man of business should bear the aspect of a gentleman. In short, at the end of twelve months his six ducats had increased thirty fold.

He soon became indispensable in Mr. Ehrenthal's household. Nothing escaped him. He never forgot a face, and was as familiar with the daily state of the funds as any broker on 'Change. He still occupied the post of errand-boy, blacked Bernhard's boots, and dined in the kitchen; but it was plain that a stool in the office, which Ehrenthal kept for form's sake, would ultimately be his. This was the goal of his ambition—the paradise of his hopes. He soon saw that he only wanted three things to attain to it—a more grammatical knowledge of German, finer caligraphy, and an initiation into the mysteries of book-keeping, of which he as yet knew nothing.

Meanwhile, he had become a distinguished man in his caravanserai, one whom even Loebel Pinkus himself treated with respect. Veitel owed this to his own sharp-wittedness. Ever since his first arrival, the hollow sound of the wooden partition had a good deal excited him, and he had often vainly sought to explore the mystery. At last, one Saturday evening, he pretended to be ill, and remained at home, when his host and the rest of the household had gone to the synagogue.

Having had the good fortune to widen a chink in the partition, he beheld what delighted him in the extreme. A large dirty room, quite full of chests, coffers, and a chaos of desirable articles—old clothes, beds, piles of linen, stuffs, hangings, hardware-goods, etc. Aladdin at his first entrance into the magician's cave was hardly so enraptured as Itzig by his discovery, which he carefully kept to himself. Sometimes at night he heard a stir in the mysterious room; nay, once whispers reached him, some of them in the deep voice of Pinkus himself. One evening, too, coming home late, he saw boxes and bundles in a little carriage before the next house, all modestly covered up with white linen; and that very night two silent guests disappeared, and came back no more; from all of which Veitel concluded that his host was a commission agent, who had his reasons for carrying on business by night rather than by day.

It was as clear as possible. These goods were taken eastward, smuggled over the border, and spread all over Russia.

Veitel used his discovery judiciously, only giving such hints of it to Pinkus as to insure his most respectful behavior.

On one eventful day Veitel returned in thoughtful mood to his lodgings, and sat in the public room. He was pondering how best to get hold of some scribe who would initiate him into the mysteries of grammar and book-keeping for the smallest possible fee; nay, perhaps for a certain old black coat, which, owing to the peculiarity of its cut, he had never yet been able to dispose of. Happening to look up in the midst of his reflections, his eye fell on a stranger who held a pen in his hand, and conversed with a tradesman. It was plain that this man was no Jew. He was little and fat. He had a red turned-up nose, bushy gray hair, and he wore an old pair of spectacles, which had great difficulty in keeping on the nose aforesaid. Veitel remarked that he had on an unusually bad coat, and took snuff. It was plain that this man was a writer of some kind; so, as soon as he had seen him hand over a paper to the tradesman, and receive a small piece of money, Veitel approached, and began:

"I wished, sir, to ask you if you happened to know any one who could give lessons in writing and book-keeping to a man of my acquaintance?"

"And this man of your acquaintance is yourself?" said the little man.

"Why should I make a secret of it?" said Veitel. "Yes, it is I; but I am only a beginner, and able to give but little."

"He who gives little receives little, my dear fellow," said the elderly scribe, taking a pinch of snuff. "What is your name, and with whom are you placed?"

"My name is Veitel Itzig, and I am in Hirsch Ehrenthal's office."

The stranger grew attentive. "Ehrenthal," he said, "is a rich man, and a wise. I have had dealings with him in my time; he has a very fair knowledge of law. What fee are you willing to pay, provided a master could be found?"

"I do not know what should be given," said Veitel.

"Then I will tell you," said he of the spectacles. "I might or might not give you instructions myself; but first I must know more about you. If I were to do so, in consideration of your being but poor, and a beginner, as you say, and also of having myself a little spare time on hand, I should only ask fifty dollars."

"Fifty dollars!" cried Veitel, in horror, sinking down on a stool, and repeating mechanically, "fifty dollars!"

"If you think that too much," said he of the spectacles, sharply, "know that I am not going to deal with a greenhorn; secondly, that I never gave my assistance for so little before; and, thirdly, that I should never think of teasing myself with you if I had not a fancy to spend a few weeks here."

"Fifty dollars!" cried Itzig; "why, I had thought it would not cost more than three or four, and a waistcoat and a pair of boots, and"—for Veitel saw that a storm was coming, and that the hat on the table was much dilapidated—"a hat almost as good as new."

"Go, you fool!" said the old man, "and look out for a parish schoolmaster."

"Then," said Itzig, "you are not a writing-master?"

"No, you great donkey," muttered the stranger; then, in a soliloquy, "Who could have supposed that Ehrenthal would keep such a booby as this? He takes me for a writing-master!"

"Who are you, then?"

"One with whom you have nothing to do," was the curt reply, and the little man rose and betook himself to the loft, while Veitel went off to ask Pinkus, as unconcernedly as he could, the name and calling of the new guest.

"Don't you know him?" said Pinkus, with an ironical smile; "take care you don't know him to your cost. Ask him his name; he knows it better than I do."

"If you will put no confidence in me, I will in you," said Veitel, and told him the whole conversation.

"So he would have given you instruction?" said Pinkus, shaking his head in amazement; "fifty dollars is a large sum; but many a man would give a hundred times as much to know what he does. Not that I care what you learn, or from whom."

Veitel went to his lair in greater perplexity than ever. Soon came Pinkus with a slight supper for the stranger, to whom he manifested a remarkable degree of sociability.

He now called him out on the balcony, and after a short talk in the dark, of which Veitel guessed himself the subject, re-entered the room, saying,

"This gentleman wishes to spend a few weeks here in private; therefore, even if questioned, you will not mention it."

"I don't even know who the gentleman is," said Veitel; "how could I tell any one that he is living here?"

"You may trust this young man," observed Pinkus to the stranger, and then wished the two good-night.

The man in spectacles sat down to his supper, every now and then casting such a glance at Veitel as an old raven might do at an unfledged chicken, who had innocently ventured within his reach.

Meanwhile, the thought darted across Itzig's mind that this mysterious person might be one of the chosen few—a possessor of the infallible receipt by which a poor man could become rich. Veitel knew now that there was no magic in this, that the receipt consisted in being more cunning than the rest of the world, and that this cunning was not without its serious consequences to its possessor; nay, it seemed to him as though to acquire it were to make a compact with Satan himself. His hand trembled, his pale face glowed, but his desire for more certain knowledge on the subject prevailed; and he told the stranger that, having heard that there was an art of always buying and selling to the best advantage, and so of making a fortune, he wished to ask whether it was that art that he (the stranger) could impart if he chose.

The old man pushed his plate away, and looked at him with amazement. "Either," said he, "you are a great dolt, or the best actor I have ever seen."

"No; I am only a dolt, but I wish to become clever," was the reply.

"A singular fellow," said the other, adjusting his spectacles so as to see him better. After a long examination, he went on: "What you, my lad, call an art, is only a knowledge of law, and the wisdom to turn it to one's own profit. He who is up to this can not fail to be a great man, for he will never be hanged." At which he laughed in a way that made a painful impression even upon Itzig.

"This art," he went on, "is not easily acquired, my boy. It takes much practice, a good head, prompt decision, and, above all, what the knowing call 'character.'" At which he laughed again.

Veitel felt that a crisis in his life had come. He fumbled for his worn-out pocket-book, and held it for a moment in his trembling hand. During that moment, all manner of conflicting thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind. He thought of his worthy mother's tearful farewell, and how she had said, "Veitel, this is a wicked world; gain thy bread honestly." He saw his old father on his death-bed, with his white head drooping over his emaciated frame. He thought, too, of his fifty dollars gathered together so laboriously—of the insults he had had to bear for their sake—the threatened blows. At that thought he threw his pocket-book on the table, and cried, "Here is the money!" but he knew, at the same time, that he was committing sin, and an invisible weight settled on his heart.

A few hours later, the lamp had burned low, but still Veitel sat with mouth open, eyes fixed, and face flushed, listening to the old man, who was speaking about what most people would vote a tiresome subject—promissory notes.

Later still, the light was gone out; and the stranger, having emptied his bottle of brandy, was asleep on his straw bed, but still Veitel sat and wrote in fancy on the dark walls fraudulent bonds and receipts, while the sweat ran down from his brow; then he opened the balcony door, and, leaning on the railing, saw the water rush by like a mighty stream of ink. Again he traced bonds on the shadows of the opposite walls, and wrote receipts on the surface of the stream. The shadows fled, the water ran away; but his soul had contracted, in that dark night, a debt to be one day required with compound interest.

From that night Veitel hurried home every evening, and the lessons went on regularly.

We may here briefly relate what he gradually discovered as to the history of his teacher.

Herr Hippus had seen better days. He had once been a leading attorney, and had then taken to the Bar, where he soon gained a high reputation for his skill in making a doubtful cause appear a good one. At first he had no intention of gaining a fortune by confounding right and wrong. On the contrary, he had a painful sense of insecurity when retained for a client whose cause seemed to him unjust. He differed but little, indeed, from the best of his colleagues; perhaps he had somewhat fewer scruples; and, certainly, he was too fond of good red wine. He had a caustic wit, made an admirable boon companion, and, having a subtle intellect, was fond of paradoxes and skillful hair-splitting. Thanks to the red wine, he fell into the habit of spending much, and so into the necessity of making much also. Vanity and the love of excitement led him to devote the whole energy of his brilliant intellect to winning bad cases, and thus that frequent curse of barristers overtook him; all who had bad cases applied to him. For a long time this annoyed him; but gradually, very gradually, he became demoralized by the constant contact with falsehood and wrong. His wants went on increasing, temptations multiplied, and conscience weakened. But, though long hollow within, he continued outwardly prosperous, and many prophesied that he, with his immense practice, would die one of the richest men in the city, when, cunning lawyer as he was, he had the misfortune to provoke inquiry by appearing in a desperate case. The result was, that he was at once disgraced, and vanished like a falling star from the circle of his professional brethren. He soon lost the last remains of respectability. In reality, he had amassed very little, and his love of drink went on increasing. He sunk to a mere frequenter of brandy-shops, a promoter of unfair litigation, and an adviser of rogues and swindlers. Owing to some of these practices it was that he now found it convenient, under the pretense of a long journey, to become for a time invisible. Pinkus was an old ally, and hence the opportunity for Veitel's lessons.

These lessons soon became an absolute necessity to the old man's heart—ay, to his heart; for, bad as he was, its warmth was not yet utterly extinguished.

It grew a melancholy pleasure to him to open out his mental resources to the youth, whose attention flattered him, and gradually he began to attach himself to him. He would put by a portion of his supper, and even of his brandy for him, and enjoy seeing him consume it. Once, when Veitel had caught a feverish cold, and lay shivering under his thin coverlet, the old man spread his own blankets over him, and felt a glow of pleasure on seeing his grateful smile.

Veitel repaid these sparks of friendly feeling with a degree of reverence, greater than ever pupil felt before. He did many small kindnesses on his side, and made Hippus the confidant of all his own transactions. It is true that this intimacy had its thorns. The old man could not refrain from practicing his sharp wit on Itzig, who called him, too, by many an irreverent name when he had stupefied himself with brandy; but, on the whole, they got on capitally, and were essential to each other.

During the months that the old man spent in this retreat, Veitel learned much besides the special science already alluded to; he improved in speaking and writing German, and gained a great amount of general information. This change did not escape Mr. Ehrenthal, who mentioned it in his family circle much as a farmer would the promising points of a young bullock; and, at the end of the quarter, announced of his own accord to Veitel that the shoe-blacking and kitchen dinner were to cease, and that he was prepared to give him a place in his office, and a small salary besides. Veitel received the long-desired intelligence with great self-command, and returned his humble thanks, adding, "I have still one very, very great favor to ask. May I have the honor of dining once a week at Mr. Ehrenthal's table, that I may see how people conduct themselves in good society? If you will do me this kindness, you may deduct it from my salary."

Ehrenthal shook his head, and said that he must refer the question to his wife; the result of which consultation was, that on the following Sabbath Veitel was invited to eat a roast goose with the family.



CHAPTER IX.

One warm summer evening, office hours being over, Fink said to Anton, "Will you accompany me to-day? I am going to try a boat that I have just had built." Anton was ready at once; so they jumped into a carriage, and drove to the river. Fink pointed out a round boat that floated on the water like a pumpkin, and said, in a melancholy tone, "There it is—a perfect horror, I declare! I cut out the model for the builder myself too; I gave him all manner of directions, and this is the sea-gull's egg he has produced."

"It is very small," replied Anton, with an uncomfortable foreboding.

"I'll tell you what it is," cried Fink to the builder, who now came forward, respectfully touching his hat, "our deaths will be at your door, for we shall inevitably be drowned in that thing, and it will be owing to your want of sense."

"Sir," replied the man, "I have made it exactly according to your directions."

"You have, have you?" continued Fink. "Well, then, as a punishment, you shall go with us; you must see that it is but fair that we should be drowned together."

"No, sir, that I will not do, with so much wind as this," returned the man, decidedly.

"Then stay ashore and make sawdust pap for your children. Give me the mast and sails." He fitted in the little mast, hoisted and examined the sails, then took them down again, and laid them at the bottom of the boat, threw in a few iron bars as ballast, told Anton where to sit, and, seizing the two oars, struck out from shore. The pumpkin danced gayly on the water, to the great delight of the builder and his friends, who stood watching it.

"I wanted to show these lazy fellows that it is possible to row a boat like this against the stream," said Fink, replacing the mast, setting the sail, and giving the proper directions to his pupil. The wind came in puffs, sometimes filling the little sail, and bending the boat to the water's edge, sometimes lulling altogether.

"It is a wretched affair," cried Fink, impatiently; "we are merely drifting now, and we shall capsize next."

"If that's the case," said Anton, with feigned cheerfulness, "I propose that we turn back."

"It doesn't matter," replied Fink, coolly; "one way or other, we'll get to land. You can swim?"

"Like lead. If we do capsize I shall sink at once, and you will have some trouble to get me up again."

"If we find ourselves in the water, mind you do not catch hold of me, which would be the surest way of drowning both. Wait quietly till I draw you out; and, by the way, you may as well be pulling off your coat and boots; one is more comfortable in the water en neglige." Anton did so at once.

"That's right," said Fink. "To say the truth, this is wretched sport. No waves, no wind, and now no water. Here we are, aground again! Push off, will you? Hey, shipmate! what would you say if this dirty shore were suddenly to sink, and we found ourselves out on a respectable sea—water as far as the horizon, waves as high as that tree yonder, and a good hearty wind, that blew your ears off, and flattened your nose on your face?"

"I can't say that I should like it at all," replied Anton, nervously.

"And yet," said Fink, "there are few plights so bad but they might be still worse. Just think; in that case it would be some comfort to have even these good-for-nothing planks between us and the water; but what if we ourselves lay on the stream—no boat, no shore—mountain waves all round?"

"I at least should be lost!" cried Anton, with genuine horror.

"I have a friend, a good friend, to whom I trust implicitly in any crisis, to whom this once happened. He sauntered down to the shore on a glorious evening, had a fancy to bathe, stripped, plunged, and struck out gayly. The waves lifted him up and drew him down; the water was warm, the sunset dyed the sea with ten thousand exquisite hues, and the golden sky glowed above him. The man shouted with ecstasy."

"You were that man?" inquired Anton.

"True. I went on swimming for about an hour, when the dull look of the sky reminded me that it was time to return; so I made for land; and what think you, Master Wohlfart, that I saw?"

"A ship?" said Anton; "a fish?"

"No. I saw nothing—the land had vanished. I looked on all sides—I rose as high as I could out of the water—there was nothing to be seen but sea and sky. The current that set out from the land had treacherously carried me out. I was in mid ocean, somewhere between England and America, that I knew; but this geographical fact was by no means soothing to one in my circumstances. The sky grew dark, the hollows filled with black uncanny shadows, the waves got higher, and a cold wind blew round my head; nothing was to be seen but the dusky red of the sky and the rolling waters."

"Horrible!" cried Anton.

"It was a moment when no priest in the world could have prevented a poor human being from wishing himself a pike, or some such creature. I knew by the sky where the land lay. Now came the question, which was stronger—the current or my arm? I began a deadly struggle with the treacherous ocean deities. I should not have done much by such swimming as they teach in schools. I rolled like a porpoise, and struck out desperately for about two hours; then the labor got hard indeed. It was the fiercest battle I ever fought. The sky grew dark, the emerald waves pitchy black, only they were crested with foam that blew in my face. At times a single star peeped from the clouds—that was my only comfort. So I swam on and on, and still there was no land to be seen. I was tired out, and the hideous darkness sometimes made me think of giving up the struggle. The clouds gathered darker, the stars disappeared; I began to doubt whether I was taking the right direction, and I was making very little way. I knew the game was nearly up—my chest heaved—countless sparks rose before my eyes. Just then, my boy, when I had glided half unconsciously down the slope of a wave, I felt something under my feet that was no longer water."

"It was land!" cried Anton.

"Yes," said Fink; "it was good firm sand. I found myself on shore about a mile to leeward of my clothes, and fell down like a dead seal." Then stopping, and with a steady look at Anton, "Now, mate, get ready!" cried he; "take your legs from under the bench; I am going to tack and make for shore. Now for it!"

At that moment came a violent gust of wind; the mast creaked, the boat heeled over, and could not right herself. According to promise, Anton went to the bottom without any more ado. Quick as lightning Fink dived after him, brought him up, and, with a violent effort, reached a spot whence they could wade ashore. "Deuce take it," gasped Fink; "take hold of my arm, can't you?"

But Anton, who had swallowed a quantity of water, was hardly conscious, and only waved Fink off.

"I do believe he'll be down again," cried the latter, impatiently, catching hold of him and making for the shore.

A crowd had by this time assembled round the spot where Fink was holding his companion in his arms and exhorting him to recover himself. At length Anton opened his eyes.

"Why, Wohlfart," said Fink, anxiously, "how goes it, my lad? You have taken the matter too much to heart. Poncho y ponche!" cried he to the by-standers; "a cloak and a glass of rum—that will soon bring him round."

A cloak was willingly lent, and our hero carried to the builder's house.

"Here is an end of boat, sails, oars, and all," said Fink, reproachfully, "and of our coats into the bargain. Did not I tell you that it was a good-for-nothing tub?"

For an hour, at least, Fink tended his victim with the greatest tenderness, but it was late before Anton was sufficiently recovered to walk home.

The next day was Sunday, and the principal's birth-day besides. On this important occasion, the gentlemen of the office spent some hours after dinner with the family circle, and coffee and cigars were served. As they were sitting down to table, the good-natured cousin said to Fink, "The whole town is full of the fearful risk which you and Mr. Wohlfart ran yesterday."

"Not worth mentioning, my dear lady!" replied Fink, carelessly; "I only wanted to see how Master Wohlfart would behave in drowning. I threw him into the water, and he was within a hair's-breadth of remaining at the bottom, considering it indiscreet to give me the trouble of saving him. Only a German is capable of such self-sacrificing politeness."

"But," cried the cousin, "this is a sheer tempting of Providence. It is dreadful to think of it!"

"It is dreadful to think of the impurity of your river. The water sprites that inhabit it must be a dirty set. But Wohlfart did not mind their mud. He fell into their arms with enthusiasm. He threw both legs over the boat's edge before there was any occasion."

"You told me to do so," cried Anton, in self-exculpation.

"Poor Mr. Wohlfart!" exclaimed the astonished cousin. "But your coats! This morning I met a policeman with the wet bundle in his arms, and it was he who told me of your accident."

"The coats were fished up at an early hour," said Fink, "but Karl doubts whether they will ever dry. Meanwhile, Wohlfart's boots are on a voyage of discovery toward the ocean."

Anton blushed with anger at his friend's jests, and looked stealthily toward the upper end of the table. The merchant glanced darkly at the cheerful Fink. Sabine was pale and downcast—the cousin alone was fluent in her pity for the coats.

The dinner was more solemn than usual. After the plates were removed, Mr. Liebold rose to fulfill the arduous duty imposed upon him by his position—to propose the health of their principal. He took all possible pains not to retract or qualify his eulogiums and good wishes; but even this toast fell flat—a certain painful excitement seemed to prevail at the head of the table.

After dinner they all stood round in groups, drinking their coffee; and bold spirits—Mr. Pix, for instance, ventured upon a cigar as well. Meanwhile, Anton roamed through the suite of rooms, looking at the paintings on the walls, turning over albums, and fighting off ennui as well as he could. In this way he reached the end room, and stopped there in amazement. Sabine stood before him, tears falling from her eyes. She was sobbing silently, her slender form shaken by the conflict within, but yet she was trying to repress her grief with an energy that only made it the more touching.

As Anton, filled with deepest sympathy, turned to go, she looked round, composed herself, passed her handkerchief over her eyes, and said kindly, "Take care, Mr. Wohlfart, that the foolhardiness of your friend leads you into no fresh danger. My brother would be very sorry that your intercourse with him should prove an injury to you."

"Miss Sabine," replied Anton, looking reverentially at her, "Fink is as noble as he is reckless. He saved me at the peril of his own life."

"Oh yes!" cried Sabine, with an expression Anton did not quite understand; "he loves to play with whatever is sacred to others."

At that moment Mr. Jordan came to request her to give them some music. She went at once.

Anton was excited to the utmost. Sabine Schroeter stood so high in the estimation of the gentlemen of the counting-house that they paid her the compliment of rarely naming her. Most of the younger clerks had been desperately in love with her; and though the flames had burned down for want of fuel, yet the embers still glowed in the innermost recesses of their hearts. All alike would have fought for her against any enemy in the world. But they looked upon her as a marble saint, a being beyond the influence of human weaknesses.

Anton, however, now doubted whether she were really this. To him, too, the young lady of the house had been like the moon, only visible afar off, and on one side. Daily he sat opposite her, saw the delicate sadness of her face—the deep glance of her beautiful eyes—heard her speak the same commonplace sentences, and knew no more of her. All at once an accident made him her confidant. He felt sure, by many a token, that this grief was connected with Fink; and although he had for him the devoted admiration that an unsophisticated youth readily bestows upon a daring and experienced comrade, yet, in this case, he found himself enlisted on the lady's side against his friend; he resolved to watch him narrowly, and be to her a brotherly protector, a faithful confidant—all, in short, that was sympathizing and helpful.

A few hours later, Sabine sat in the window with folded hands. Her brother had laid aside his newspaper, and was watching her anxiously. At last he rose, stepped silently up to her, and laid his hand on her head. She clasped him in her arms. There they stood, leaning against each other, two friends who had so shared their lives that each knew the other's thoughts without a spoken word.

Tenderly stroking his sister's hair, the merchant began: "You know what large dealings we have with Fink's father?"

"I know that you are not satisfied with the son."

"I could not help taking him into our house, but I regret the hour I did so."

"Do not be hard upon him," pleaded the sister, kissing her brother's hand; "think how much there is that is noble in his character."

"I am not unjust toward him. But it is yet to be proved whether he will be a blessing or a curse to his fellow-men. He may become a more paltry aristocrat, who wastes his energies in refined self-indulgence, or a covetous, unscrupulous money-maker, like his uncle in America."

"He is not heartless!" murmured Sabine; "his friendship for Wohlfart shows that."

"He does but play with him—throws him into the water, and picks him out again."

"Nay," cried Sabine; "he esteems his good sense and high principles, and feels that he has a better nature than his own."

"Do not deceive yourself and me," replied the merchant; "I know the fascination that this strange man has long had for you. I have said nothing, for I could trust you. But, now that I see that he makes you really unhappy, I can not but wish for his absence. He shall leave our house without delay."

"Oh no, no!" cried Sabine, wringing her hands. "No, Traugott, that shall not, must not be! If there be any way of rescuing him from the evil influences of his past life, it is the being with you. To see, to take part in the regular activity, the high honor of your mercantile career, is salvation to him. Brother," continued she, taking his hand, "I have no secrets from you; you have found out my foolish weakness; but I promise you that henceforth it shall be no more to me than the recollection of some tale that I have read. Never by look or word will I betray it; only do not, oh! do not be angry with him—do not send him away, and that on my account."

"But how can I tell whether his remaining here may not subject you to a painful conflict?" inquired the merchant. "Our position as regards him is difficult enough without this. He ranks as a brilliant match in every sense of the word. His father has intrusted him to me. If an attachment were to spring up between you, it would be treachery to his father to withhold it from him. It might seem to him as if we had a wish to secure the young heir; and he, accustomed as he is to easy conquests, might perhaps laugh at what he would call your weakness and my long-headedness. The very thought calls up all my pride."

"Brother," cried Sabine, with burning cheeks, "do not forget that I am your sister. I am a merchant's daughter, and he would never belong entirely to our class. I am as proud as you, and have always had the conviction that not all the love in the world could ever fill the gulf between us. Trust me," continued she, with tears; "you shall see no more sad looks. But be kinder to him; think what his fate has been, tossed about among strangers; think how he has grown up without affection, without a home; spoiled in many ways, but still with a high sense of honor, an abhorrence of all that is little. Trust me, and be kinder to him."

"He shall stay," said the merchant; "but besides, my darling, there is another whom we should seek to guard from his influence."

"Wohlfart!" cried Sabine, cheerfully; "oh, I will answer for him."

"You undertake a good deal. So he, too, is a favorite?"

"He is tender-hearted and honorable, and devoted to you; and he has plenty of spirit too. Trust him, he will be a match for Fink. I happened to meet him at the time that Fink had insulted him, and I have given him a place in my heart ever since."

"How does this heart find room for every thing?" cried the merchant, playfully; "above and beyond all, the great store-room, the oaken presses of our grandmother, and the piles of white linen; then, in a side-chamber apart, your strict brother; then—"

"Then all the others in the ante-chamber," broke in Sabine.

Meanwhile Fink entered Anton's room, humming a tune, little suspecting the storm in the front part of the house, and, truth to tell, little caring what they thought about him there. "I have fallen into disgrace on your account, my son," cried he, merrily. "His majesty has treated me all the day long with killing indifference, and the black-haired has not deigned me a single glance—good sort of people, but desperately matter of fact. That Sabine has at bottom plenty of life and spirit, but she plagues herself about the merest trifles. She would raise a question as to whether it was a fly's duty to scratch its head with the right leg or the left. Why, you are on the way to be looked upon as the 'Mignon' of the counting-house, and I as your evil genius. Never mind; to-morrow we will go together to the swimming-school."

And so it was. From that day forth Fink delighted to initiate his young friend into all his own pursuits. He taught him to swim, to ride, to leap, to shoot at a mark, and even threatened to get him an invitation to a hunting-party. Against this Anton vehemently protested.

Anton on his side rewarded him by the greatest devotion. They were happy evenings for both when, sitting under the shadow of the condor's wings, they chatted away and laughed so loud that through the open window the sound reached old Pluto the watch-dog, who, feeling himself the guardian of the establishment, and considered by all as a distinguished member of it, woke up to bay out his hearty sympathy with their enjoyment—ay, they were happy hours; for their intimacy ripened for the first time in the life of either into sincere friendship. And yet Anton never left off watching Fink's bearing to Sabine; although he did not name her to him, he was always expecting to hear of some important event: a betrothal, or a quarrel between Fink and the merchant, or something extraordinary. But nothing of the kind occurred; the solemn daily meals went on, and Sabine's behavior to both friends was the same as before.

Another year had passed away, the second since our apprentice's arrival, and again the roses blossomed. One evening Anton bought a large nosegay of them, and knocked with them at the door of Jordan, who was a great lover of flowers. He was surprised to find all the clerks assembled, as they had been on the day of his arrival, and he saw at a glance that they were embarrassed by his appearance. Jordan hurried to meet him, and, with a slight degree of confusion, requested that he would leave them for about an hour, as they were discussing a subject into which he, as an apprentice, could not enter. It was the first time that these kind-hearted men had ever allowed him to feel any difference between his position and theirs, and therefore his banishment slightly depressed him. He carried back his nosegay, placed it with a resigned air upon his own table, and took up a book.