icular wine
best suited to our palates.

"Fiddles sipped his Rudesheimer with the air of a connoisseur, blinking
at the ceiling now and then after the manner of expert wine tasters, and
complimenting the old lady meanwhile on the quality of the vintage.
I confined myself to a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while Fiddles,
rising from his seat, later on, stood enraptured before this portrait
and that, commenting on their coloring, ending by drawing an ancient
book from the library and going into ecstasies over the binding and
type.

"On our way home to the inn from the chateau there was, so far as I
could see, no change in Fiddles's manner. Neither was his speech or gait
at all affected by the bottle of Rudesheimer (and he managed to get away
with it all). I mention this because it is vitally important to what
follows. Only once did he seem at all excited, and that was when he
passed the cobbler's corner. But then he was always excited when he
passed the cobbler seated at work--so much so sometimes that I have seen
him shake his fist at him. To-day he merely tightened his jaw, stopped
for a moment as if determined to step in and have it out with him (the
cobbler, I afterward found out, was to leave the village for good the
next day, his trade having fallen off, owing to his being so unpopular),
and then, as if changing his mind, followed along after me, muttering:
'Spy--informer--beast--' as I had often heard him do before.

"Judge of my astonishment then, when, an hour later, Gretchen came
running into my room wringing her hands--I had caught him kissing her
the night before--and burst out with:

"'He is under the table--the huckster's feet on him--He is there like a
dog--Oh, it is dreadful! Mine Herr--won't you come?'

"'Who is under the table?'

"'Wilhelm.'

"'Where?'

"'At the public-house.'

"'How do you know?'

"'Fritz, the stable-boy has just seen him.'

"'What's the matter with him?'

"Gretchen hung her head, and the tears streamed down her cheeks,

"'He is--he is--Oh, Meinherr--it is not the beer--nobody ever gets that
way with our beer--it is something he--'

"' Drunk!'

"'Yes, dead drunk, and under the table like a hog in the mud--Oh, my
poor Wilhelm! Oh, who has been so wicked to you! Oh! Oh!' and she ran
from the room.

"I started on the run, Gretchen and the good landlady close behind. If
the Rudesheimer had upset Fiddles it had worked very slowly; maybe
it had revived an old conquered