Albert’s face changed color. He paled a trifle and was terrified.
“This is a fine piece of business,” Rindskopf soon regained his voice—“What did you do with that bill of exchange?”
This strange demand puzzled poor Albert. He stared fretfully at his employer.
“What did you do with that bill of exchange I gave you the other day to forward to Berlin?” Rindskopf repeated, panting.
“—I—I enclosed it in the letter—as you told me—” Albert stammered.
Adolf’s eyes were dancing over the letter in his hand. Presently he was reading its contents aloud. “ ‘My dear Herr Rindskopf:
“ ‘In Frankfort, the birthplace of Goethe, love-songs may be called bills of exchange, but in our prosaic city of Berlin we mean precisely what we say. We have tried to cash the enclosed but without success; perhaps you can do better with it in your home town—’ ”
Rindskopf had caught the facetious tone of the letter and burst out in enraged laughter.
“Fine business I call this!” he cried as he continued reading the ironic reply, accentuating every syllable, contempt in his voice: “ ‘We are therefore returning your amorous ditty, much as we appreciate your romantic sentiments, and beg to send us instead a plain, matter-of-fact bill of exchange.’ ”
Adolf was beside himself. He called Albert a good-for-nothing, cursed the day he had let the boy enter the bank, swore that his wife had warned him against taking Zorn’s son into his house.