was a welcome guest during his vacation at all the taverns
for ten miles around; and when he got out of money and was far from
home, he remembered that a parsonage stands near every church, and
would go in and ask for a _viaticum_ (traveling money), which was due
him as _studiosus litterarum_, a devotee of letters and fine arts.

And in so doing he would now and then encounter a young vicar,
neophyte, or undergraduate, who would exchange reminiscences of
Freising with him, and who, after the fifth pint of beer, would join in
the fine songs: "_Vom hoh'n Olymp herab ward uns die Freude_" and
"_Bruederchen, er-her-go bi-ba-hamus._"

When he again entered the seat of culture in October, his head was
considerably thicker, his bass appreciably deeper, but otherwise
everything was as before.

In the meantime he had not learned to love Caius Julius Caesar, nor to
appreciate the Greek verbs; his teacher was as disagreeable as before,
and the result at the close of the year was that Matt must once more
forego promotion.

At the same time he was notified that he had passed the age limit and
might not come back again. Now wouldn't that beat all?

So they were all out in the cold: old Fottner who had been so proud,
the tavern-keeper who had already been joyfully looking forward to
Matt's first mass, and the Catholic Church, which was losing such a
pillar.

But most of all the Upper-Bridge Farmer of Eynhofen, whose whole deal
with our Lord God was off. By all the devils, if that wasn't enough to
madden a man and make him curse!

For seven long years he had had to pay over the nail, do nothing but
pay, and no small sum, either; you can believe that. A mile away you
could tell the quality of the fodder Matt had been standing in. And
everything was in vain; on the heavenly record of the Bridge Farmer
that lightning-rod oath was still written down, but there wasn't an
ink-spot on the credit side.

For after all, nobody could suppose that our Lord God would let Matt's
scholarly training be set down as anything to the good.

Such a miserable, outrageous piece of rascality surely had never
existed before in the history of the world!

This time the rage of the Bridge Farmer was directed not merely against
the teachers at Freising; the priest had enlightened him as to the
fact that Matt was deficient in everything except tarot playing and
beer-drinking. The ragamuffin, the good-for-nothing!

Now he was running around Eynhofen w