hen they and Kupeczky talked Slovak together, every one
turned at the sound of the strange language, wondering which of the many
it was that had been invented at the Tower of Babel.

When the last lesson was over, Gregorics was waiting at the gate, and
the delighted boy would run and join him--though his comrades, who, one
would have thought, would have had enough to occupy their thoughts
elsewhere, teased him about the old man. They swore he was the devil in
_propria persona_, that he did Gyuri Wibra's exercises for him, and that
he had a talisman which caused him to know his lessons well. It was easy
to be the first in his class at that rate. There were even some silly
enough to declare the old gentleman had a cloven foot, if you could
only manage to see him with his boots off. The old red umbrella, too,
which he always had with him, they thought must be a talisman, something
after the style of Aladdin's lamp. Pista Paracsanyi, the best classical
verse writer, made up some lines on the red umbrella; which were soon
learnt by most of the boys, and spouted on every possible occasion, in
order to annoy the "head boy." But the poet had his reward in the form
of a black eye and a bleeding nose, bestowed upon him by Gyuri Wibra,
who, however, began to be vexed himself at the sight of the red
umbrella, which made his old friend seem ridiculous in the eyes of his
schoolfellows, and one day he broached the subject to the old gentleman.

"You might really buy a new umbrella, uncle."

The old gentleman smiled.

"What, you don't like my umbrella?"

"You only get laughed at, and the boys have even made verses about it."

"Well, my boy, tell your schoolfellows that 'all that glitters is not
gold,' as they may have heard; but tell them, too, that very often
things that do not glitter may be gold. You will understand that later
on when you are grown up."

He thought for a bit, idly making holes in the sand with the umbrella,
and then added:

"When the umbrella is yours."

Gyuri made a wry face.

"Thank you, uncle, but I hope you don't mean to give it me on my
birthday instead of the pony you promised me?"

And he laughed heartily, upon which the old gentleman began to laugh
too, contentedly stroking his mustache, consisting of half a dozen
hairs. There was something strange in his laugh, as though he had
laughed _inward_ to his own soul.

"No, no, you shall have your pony. But I assure you that the umbrella
will once b