At which they all laughed, as a capital joke. The family and their two friends then sat down to their homely meal.
"So you are going to give us a shooting-match on Sunday," said the young man whom the Wirth had called Franz.
"Ye—s," said the Sandwirth reluctantly; "but I don't altogether like it."
"You don't? And why not, Sandwirth?"
"I doubt it's being quite right."
"Why, it brings you plenty of custom!"
"Aye, Franz; and, in your eyes, that settles the question; but I doubt if it be a good way of spending the Sabbath. If I were a maker of laws, which I'm never likely to be, I'd put down Sabbath-breaking."
"But, Sandwirth," said the taller man, in a peculiarly full, rich, earnest voice, "the Sandwirths, your ancestors, used to give Sabbath shooting-matches on this very spot. Look at the glorious old targets hanging like trophies on your wall. I remember, the first time I ever came in sight of this house was on a Sunday afternoon, and the sharp, quick, rattling reports of the rifles echoed among the hills. You yourself stood umpire among a knot of young fellows in green jackets and red sashes; and your grey-headed father sat at a long table covered with hammers, screw-drivers, powder-flasks, ramrods, and everything that could be wanted."
"He did so, Speckbacher. You bring the scene before me." And the Wirth's deep-set, large dark eyes seemed dwelling on some far-off picture.
"You yourself hit the bull's eye twice, Anderl!"