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