behind them appeared the female relative in much excitement.
"They will not tolerate us up stairs," said Anton, hurriedly, to Pix.
"Now they have actually come to the laundry," said the lady, just as hurriedly, to the principal.
"The cigars can not stand down here," declared Pix to both.
"And I will not have cigars in the laundry," cried the distant cousin. "I declare there is not a place in the house safe from Mr. Pix. He has filled the maid-servants' rooms with cigars, and they complain that the smell is intolerable."
"It is dry up there," explained Mr. Pix to the merchant.
"Could you not, perhaps, place them elsewhere?" inquired the latter, respectfully.
"Impossible!" was the decided reply.
"Do you really require the whole laundry, my dear cousin?" said the principal, turning to the lady.
"The half of it were ample," interpolated Pix.
"I hope, Pix, you will content yourself with a corner," said the head of the firm, by way of decision. "Tell the carpenter to run up a partition at once."
"If Mr. Pix once gets admittance, he will take the whole of our laundry," expostulated the too experienced cousin.
"It is the last concession we will make," was the reply.
Mr. Pix laughed silently—or grinned rebelliously, as the lady phrased it; and, as soon as the authorities were out of sight, sent Anton up again with the cigar-boxes.
But what chiefly constituted the importance of Pix in the eyes of the community were the Herculean porters under his command. When these men rolled mighty casks about, and lifted hundred weights like pounds, they seemed to the new apprentice like the giants of fairy lore. Some of them belonged to this firm exclusively, others to a corporation of porters who worked for different houses, but T. O. Schröter's was the house they liked best. For more than one generation the head of this particular firm had enjoyed their highest consideration, and stood godfather to all their large-headed babies.
Among these men, the strongest and tallest was Sturm, their chief—a man who could hardly get through narrow streets, and was frequently called to move a weight found impracticable by his comrades. Wonderful stories were told of his exploits; and Specht affirmed that there was nothing on earth beyond his powers.
His relations with the firm were very intimate indeed; and having an only child, upon whom he doted, and who had early lost his mother, he placed him, at the age of fifteen, in T. O. Schröter's house, in a nondescript capacity. The boy was a universal favorite, knew every hole and corner, collected all the nails and pieces of packthread, folded all the packing-paper, fed Pluto the watch-dog, and did sundry other odd jobs. Up to every thing, invariably good-humored and ready-witted, the porters fondly called him "our Karl;" and his father often glanced aside from his work to look at him with delight.
But in one point Karl did disappoint him: he gave no promise of ever attaining to his father's stature. He was a handsome, fair-haired, rosy-cheeked youth; but all the giants agreed that he would never be more than a middle-sized man; and so his father fell into the habit of treating him like a sort of delicate dwarf, with the utmost consideration, and a certain touch of compassion.
"I don't care," said the indulgent parent to Mr. Pix, when introducing the boy into the business, "what the little fellow learns besides, so that he does learn to be honorable and practical." This was a speech after Mr. Pix's own heart; and this system of education was at once begun by Sturm taking his son into the great vaulted room, and saying, "Here are the almonds and the raisins—taste them."
"Oh, they are good, father," cried the boy.
"I believe you, Liliputian," nodded Sturm. "Now, see, you may eat as many of them as you like; neither Mr. Schröter, Mr. Pix, nor I shall interfere. But, my little lad, you had better see how long you can hold out without beginning. The longer the better for yourself, and the more honor in it; and when you can stand it no longer, come to me and say 'Enough;'" upon which he left him, having laid his great turnip of a watch on a chest standing by. The boy proudly placed his hands in his pockets, and walked up and down among the goods. After more than two hours, he came, watch in hand, to his father, exclaiming "Enough."
"Two hours and a half," said old Sturm, nodding at Mr. Pix. "Very well, child; come and nail up this chest; here is a new hammer for you; it cost tenpence."
"It's not worth it," was the reply. "You always pay too much." Such was Karl's education.
The day after Anton's arrival, Pix had introduced him to Sturm, and Anton had said, in a tone of respect, "this is my first experience of business; pray give me a hint whenever you can."
"Every thing is to be learned in time," replied the giant; "yonder is my little boy, who has got on capitally in a year. So your father was not a merchant?"
"My father was an accountant; he is dead," was the reply.
"I am sorry to hear it," said Sturm; "but you have still the comfort of a mother?"
"My mother, too, is dead."
"Alas! alas!" cried the porter, compassionately. He went on shaking his head for a long time, and at length added, in a low voice, to his Karl, "He has no mother."
"And no father either," rejoined Karl.
"Be kind to him, little one," said old Sturm; "you are a sort of orphan yourself."
"Not I," cried Karl; "any one with such a great father as mine to look after has his hands full."
"Why, you are a perfect little monster!" said his father, cheerfully hammering away at a cask.
From that hour Karl showed all manner of small attentions to Anton, and a species of affectionate intimacy sprang up between the two youths.
Indeed, Anton was on excellent terms with all the officials. He listened attentively to Jordan's sensible remarks, was prompt and unconditional in his obedience to Mr. Pix, entered into political discussions with Specht, read with interest Baumann's missionary reports, never asked Mr. Purzel for money in advance, and often encouraged Mr. Liebold to utter some palpable truth without retracting the statement. There was only one with whom he could not get on well, and that was the volunteer clerk, Fink.
One gloomy afternoon, Mr. Jordan chanced to give our hero a certain message to take to another house, and, as he rose, Fink looked up from his desk, and said to Jordan, "Just send him at the same time to the gunsmith—the good-for-nothing fellow can send my gun by him."
Our hero crimsoned. "Do not give me that commission," said he to Jordan; "I shall not execute it."
"Really!" asked Fink, in amazement; "and why not, my fine fellow?"
"I am not your servant," replied Anton, bitterly. "Had you requested me to do this for you, I might have complied; but I will take no orders from you."
"Dolt!" muttered Fink, and went on writing.
The whole office had heard him, and every eye turned to Anton, whose eyes flashed as he exclaimed, "You have insulted me—I will not bear an insult from any one—you must explain yourself."
"I
