Throughout the whole journey he was alone in the railway carriage; other people did not travel so early. He looked stupidly out of the window. It was all one to him to-day what the fields looked like and how the harvest was getting on. He could only think of what he should say for his boy. Perhaps it was still possible to make them give up the charge against him.
In the capital he sat for an hour and a half in the waiting-room, waiting for his train. He got a cup of coffee, and ate his breakfast from the provisions in his pocket.
It was close and hot in the big room. He felt uncomfortable in such an atmosphere, as every one must do who is accustomed to work in the open air, and at last he threw back his cloak to relieve his oppression. People stared at his medals, nudged one another, and would not take their eyes off him, looking curious but respectful.
The turnpike-keeper sighed and buttoned his cloak again. Oh, if people only knew in what trouble he was!
It was just eight o'clock when he reached the garrison town. Of course that was somewhat early to be making such a visit as his; but he had no time to lose, and he knew that an officer must always begin the day early.
The porter at the station did not know where Captain von Wegstetten lived. But the turnpike-keeper had a piece of luck: outside the station he met a gunner, who readily told him the address--"11 Markt Strasse, up two flights of stairs"--and showed him the way to go.
The two flights of stairs tried the old man sorely. He had to wait on the first landing in order to get his breath. "Have I grown old all of a sudden?" he asked himself in surprise.
A soldier in a red coat opened the door to him.
"Is the captain at home?" asked the turnpike-keeper.
"Sorry, but he's not," answered the lad.