"What stuff is this? Would you frighten me with that dunce? He is sillier than Wistik—far more silly. He does not know it, though. And what is more, he does not exist at all, and never has existed. I alone exist, do you understand? If you do not believe me, I will make you feel that I do exist."
And he shook poor Johannes by the ears—hard. The latter cried out: "But I have known him so long, and I have traveled so far with him!"
"You have dreamed it, I say. Where, then, are the rose-bush and the little key? Hey!—But you are not dreaming now! Do you feel that?"
"Auch!" cried Johannes; for Pluizer was tweaking his ears.
It had grown dark, and the bats were flying with shrill squeakings close to their heads. The air was black and heavy—not a leaf stirred in the woods.
"May I go home?" begged Johannes. "To my father?"
"Your father? What do you want of him?" asked Pluizer. "That person would give you a warm reception after your long absence!"
"I want to go home," said Johannes; and he thought of the living-room with the bright lamp-light, where he had so often sat beside his father, listening to the scratching of his pen. It was cozy there, and peaceful.
"Yes, but you ought not to have gone away, and stayed away—all for the sake of that madcap who has no existence. It is too late now. And if nothing turns up to prevent it, I will take care of you. Whether I do it, or your father does it, is precisely the same thing. Such a father! That is only imagination, however. Did you make your own selection? Do you think no one else so good—so clever? I am just as good, and much more clever."
Johannes had no heart for an answer; he closed his eyes, and nodded slightly.