“Yes, the contents goes with the trousers,” said Albert with seeming absentmindedness.
Krebsfleisch at once removed his own tattered trousers unceremoniously and pulled on those offered him.
“Your father must be very rich,” he was saying as he was stretching the waist line to fit his rotundity.
“Very, very rich,” stammered Albert with a sad smile on his face.
“And you never go hungry—not for a single day?”
“No, not for mortal food,” Zorn intoned wistfully.
“The other day,” Krebsfleisch said in a plaintive tone, “I did some copying for a rich idiot who took i a notion into his head that he had a new theory about the universe. He paid me four silver Thalers! Yes, sir, I had four silver Thalers in the hollow of my hand and was on my way to Jagor’s to have a real spread—Braten and white bread and a bottle of wine—and invited two friends for the feast. On the way to the restaurant I met a fellow-student and we dropped into Lutter and Wegner’s for a drink. I don’t know how it happened but we both got drunk and when night came the four Thalers were gone. One of the students, who had been invited to the spread, waited for me at Jagor’s until midnight, and then he challenged me—that fool! Must I lose my life in addition to the loss of my four Thalers? I have no more chance of a dinner at Jagor’s,” he ended with an audible sigh. “Rich idiots with new theories do not grow on trees.”
He rose and stretched his arms, with a downward look at his tightly fitting trousers.
“Can you perchance spare a top coat to cover this misfit?”
Yes, Albert had a top coat. It was hanging on a peg in the open closet.