But as soon as they landed, the setter ran away. "It needed me no
longer," thought the schoolmaster, and he walked home and went to bed.
These trifling incidents of Midsummer day had robbed the schoolmaster
of his assurance. They taught him that all foresight, all precautions,
all the clever calculations in the world availed nothing. He felt a
certain instability in his surroundings. Even the public house, his
home, was not to be counted on. It might be closed any day. Moreover,
a certain reserve on the part of Gustav troubled him. The waiter was
as civil as before, more attentive even, but his friendship was gone;
he had lost confidence. It afforded the schoolmaster food for thought,
and whenever a tough piece of meat, or too small a dish of potatoes
was set before him he thought:
"Haha! He's paying me out!"
It was a bad summer for the schoolmaster: the second violin was out of
town and the book-seller frequented "Mosesheight," a garden restaurant
in his own district, situated on a hill.
On an evening in autumn the bookseller and the second violin were
sitting at their favourite table, drinking a glass of punch, when
the schoolmaster entered, carrying under his arm a parcel which he
carefully hid in an empty hamper in a cupboard used for all sorts of
lumber.
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