and by eight in the evening he went to bed.
Next morning the doctor was sent for. This time Heller ate nothing at
all at dinner; a little later fever set in, and in the night Finkenbein
and the manager had to take turns in watching by him. The next thing
was that the sailmaker died, recalcitrant, envious, and by no means
patient or tranquil; and the town was rid of one more pensioner, which
no one regretted.

It was to have better luck still. In March an unusually early spring
set in, and things began to grow. From the big mountains to the ditches
by the roadside, everything became green and young; the high-road was
peopled by precocious chickens, ducks, and traveling journeymen, and
birds of every size flitted through the air on joyous wings.

The growing loneliness and stillness of the house had been getting more
and more on Finkenbein's nerves. The two deaths seemed to him of evil
omen, and he felt more than ever like the last survivor on a sinking
ship. Now he took to smoking and leaning out of the window by the hour
into the warmth and mild spring feelings. A sort of ferment was in all
his limbs and around his still young heart, which felt the call of
spring, remembered old days, and began to consider whether there might
not be a spring for it too amidst all this universal growing, sprouting
and well-being.

One day he brought back from the town not only a packet of tobacco and
the latest news, but also, in a worn bit of waxed cloth, two new pieces
of paper which were adorned with beautiful flourishes and solemn
official blue seals, but which had not been procured at the town-hall.
How should such an old, bold traveler not understand the delicate and
mysterious art of producing on nicely written documents any desired
stamp, either old or new? It is not every one who knows how to do it;
it takes skilful fingers and much practice to extract the thin inner
skin of a fresh egg and spread it out without a wrinkle, to press on it
the stamp of an old certificate of residence and permit to travel, and
to transfer it cleanly from the damp skin to a new paper.

One fine day, then, Stefan Finkenbein disappeared without any flourish
of trumpets from the town and the district. He took for his journey his
tall, stiff hat, and left behind as a sole memento his old woolen cap
which was almost falling to pieces. The officials instituted a small
and considerate investigation. But since rumors soon came in that he
had been seen i