ng
the men talked about. Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz laughed aloud, and smoked
thick black cigars that had a very strong smell. Suddenly my father came
over to me, and gave me a smack.

"Are you here again, you idler and good-for-nothing? What will become of
you, you dunce? What will become of you? Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

It was no use. My father drove me out. I took a book into my hands, but
I did not want to read it. What was I to do? I went about the house,
from one room to the other, until I came to the nicest room of all--the
room in which slept Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, how beautiful and
bright it was! The lamps were lit, and the mirror shone. On the table
was a big, beautiful silver inkstand, and beautiful pens, also little
ornaments--men, and animals, and flowers, and bones and stones, and a
little knife! Ah, what a beautiful knife! What if I had such a knife?
What fine things I would make with it. How happy I should be. Well, I
must try it. Is it sharp? Ah, it cuts a hair. It slices up a hair. Oh,
oh, oh, what a knife!

One moment I held the knife in my hand. I looked about me on all sides,
and slipped it into my pocket. My hands trembled. My heart was beating
so loudly that I could hear it saying, "Tick, tick, tick!" I heard some
one coming. It was he--Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, what was I to do?
The knife might remain in my pocket. I could put it back later on.
Meanwhile, I must get out of the room, run away, away, far.

I could eat no supper that night. My mother felt my head. My father
threw angry glances at me, and told me to go to bed. Sleep? Could I
close my eyes? I was like dead. What was I to do with the little knife?
How was I going to put it back again?

* * *

"Come over here, my little ornament," said my father to me next day.
"Did you see the little pocket-knife anywhere?"

Of course I was very much frightened. It seemed to me that he knew--that
everybody knew. I was almost, almost crying out: "The pocket-knife? Here
it is." But something came into my throat, and would not let me utter a
sound for a minute or so. In a shaking voice I replied:

"Where? What pocket-knife?"

"Where? What knife?" my father mocked at me. "What knife? The golden
knife. Our guest's knife, you good-for-nothing, you! You dunce, you!
Tkeh-heh-heh!"

"What do you want of the child?" put in my mother. "The child knows
nothing of anything, and he worries him about the knife, the knife."

"The knife--the knife! How ca