reaching almost to his heels, and which served
to hide the trowsers, the frayed ends of which explained their condition;
on his bare feet he wore a pair of trodden-down slippers, with upper
leathers gaping in front with open mouths; a despicable rascal to look
at, and yet this was a brother of one of the magistrates of Vienna.

It was soon evident to me that this individual was held in great respect
by the rest of the prisoners; such an influence has education,--for he
was an educated man,--even in such a place as a common jail.

I was soon informed of the peculiar talent which gave him a prominent
position. He was an inexhaustible teller of stories; and, added my
informant, "he can drink as much beer as any three men in Vienna."

This was saying a great deal.

On the second night of my incarceration in Punishment Room No. 1, I had
an opportunity of judging of his powers; for, on our retiring to our
boards and rugs, which, according to prison regulations, we were bound to
do at the ringing of the eight o'clock bell, I heard his peculiar voice
announce from the other side of the room, where he lay, propped up
against the wall by the especial indulgence of his comrades, that he was
about to tell a story. I could not sleep, but lay upon the hard planks
listening, as he recounted with a wonderful power of language, and no
mean amount of elocutionary dignity, some principal incidents in the life
of Napoleon. His companions lay entranced; they did not sleep, for I
could hear their whispers, and, now and then, their uneasy shiftings on
the relentless wood. And so he went on, and I fell off to sleep before
he had come to a conclusion.

This was repeated each night of my confinement, for which he received his
due payment in beer from his fellow prisoners.

He professed to have a great affection for me; would take my arm, and
walk with me up and down the ward, telling me of his acquirements, little
scraps of his history, and invariably making a request for a little beer.

On one occasion it was suggested by the "Vater" that he should tell us
his own story.

"My story!" chuckled the unashamed rascal. "Why, all Vienna knows my
story. I am the brother of Rathherr Lech, of the
Imperial-royal-city-police-bureau of Vienna. My brother is a great man;
I am a vagabond. _He_ deserves it, and _I_ deserve it; but he is my
brother for all that, and I put him in mind of it now and then.

"My brother, by his zeal and talent, h