d and proud; if it loses, we regret it perhaps more than the
principal does. When Liebold enters his figures in the great book, and
admires their fair caligraphical procession, he silently smiles with
delight. Look at him; he is doing so now."

Liebold, much embarrassed, pulled up his shirt collar.

"Then there is our friend Baumann, who secretly longs for another
calling. A short time ago he brought me a report of the horrors of
heathenism on the African coast, and said, 'I must go, Wohlfart; the
time is come.' 'Who will attend to the calculations?' asked I; 'and what
will become of the department which you and Balbus keep so entirely in
your own hands?' 'Ay, indeed,' cried Baumann, 'I had not thought of
that; I must put it off a little longer.'"

The whole party looked smilingly at Baumann, who said, as if to himself,
"It was not right of me."

"As for the tyrant Pix, I will only say that there are many hours in
which he is not quite clear as to whether the concern is his or Mr.
Schroeter's."

All laughed. Mr. Pix thrust his hand into his breast, like Napoleon.

"You are an unfair advocate," said Fink; "you enlist private feelings."

"You did the same," replied Anton. "And now I will soon dispose of you.
About half a year ago, this Yankee went to our principal and said, 'I
wish no longer to be a volunteer, but a regular member of your house.'
Why was this? Of course, only for the sake of a certain number of
dollars."

Again all smiled and looked kindly at Fink, for it was well known that
he had said on that occasion, "I wish for a regular share of employment,
I wish for the responsibility attached to it, and I thoroughly like my
work."

"And then," continued Anton, triumphantly, "he shares all the weak
sentimentalities he so condemns. He loves his horse, as you all know,
not as the sum of five hundred dollars represented by so many hundred
weight of flesh, and covered by a glossy skin--he loves it as a friend."

"Because he amuses me," said Fink.

"Of course," said Anton; "and thus table-linen amuses our housewives, so
that is even. And then his pair of condor wings, his pistols,
riding-whips, red drinking-glasses, are all trifles that he values, just
as a German emigrant does his birdcages; and, in short, he is, in point
of fact, nothing more than a poor-spirited German, like the rest of us."

Sabine shook her head, but she looked more kindly at the American, and
his face too had changed. He looked stra