The ferryman was positive that he had not that day taken over a scissors-grinder; but in yonder town, an hour's distance from the river, a Fair was to begin in the morning. Very likely Markus also would be there.
Johannes sat down by the roadside in the midst of the dark broom, with its millions of small purple flowers. The setting sun cast a glorious coloring over land and mist, and over the lustrous, flowing water. He was tired but not depressed, and he ate his bread contentedly, certain that he should find Markus. The road had become quiet and lonely. It was fun to be so free—so alone and independent—at home in the open country. Rather than anywhere else he should like to sleep out-of-doors—in the underwood.
But just as he was about to lay himself down, he saw the figure of a man with his hands in his pockets, and his cap pushed back. Johannes sat up, and waited until he came closer. Then he recognized him.
"Good evening, Director!" said Johannes.
"Good evening to you, my friend!" returned the other. "What are you doing here? Are you lost?"
"No; I am looking for friends. Is Markus with you?"
The man was the director of a Flea-Theatre; a little fellow, with a husky voice, and eyes inflamed by his fine work.
"Markus? I'm not sure. But come along—there's no knowing but he might be there."
"Are you looking for new apprentices?" asked Johannes.
"Do you happen to have any? They're worth a pretty penny, you know!"