“None that I can see,” was the retort.
Still the victim of these sallies refrained from combat. Though usually not given to curbing his tongue—and his tongue was as sharp as that of any one in the class—he would not bandy words with his arch-enemies this morning. There was hope in the boy’s heart that the forthcoming inheritance would soon liberate him from these surroundings altogether.
Presently Christian Lutz’s tender arm was around his shoulders. Christian was his favorite classmate and always took his part in his encounters with those vexatious youngsters. While Albert was the quicker with his tongue, Christian was more ready with his fist.
“I have heard your father has become a millionaire,” Christian said. “Who’s left him this fortune—your father’s father?”
“Not my father’s father,” laughed Albert, the remembrance of the inheritance at once banishing the momentary bitterness from his heart. “My father’s father had no fortune to leave—he was a poor little Jew, with long whiskers as his only belongings.”
Though uttered in a soft, jocular voice, and only intended for Christian’s ears, it reached those of Fritz.
“Ha—ha!” he tittered. “Did you hear that, boys? Al—ber’s grandfather was a poor little Jew with long whiskers.”
“A poor little Jew with long whiskers!”
“A poor little Jew with long whiskers!”
“A poor little Jew with long whiskers!”