And they shook hands on it. Friedrich gave a broad grin and stooped down to the mouth of the oven:
"Mossoo, allong ici--allong ici."--And what should creep out into the light but the Frenchman!
"Eh! Damn...!" cried the Bailiff.
"Pardon, Monsieur," said the Frenchman.
"Who has won the bet now, Bailiff?" asked Friedrich. "Here is the Frenchman and the dog too. Who is to have your Hanchen now?"
"Prussian vagabond," cried the Bailiff, and raised his stick again, "Do you think you can fool me into this? You have my Hanchen...! I would rather ..."
"Put down your stick, Bailiff, you frighten the Frenchman. Better come over here and help me to secure him; we can talk about the bet afterwards."
"Pardon," threw in the Chasseur.
"Pardong here, and pardong there," cried Friedrich; "what do you mean by running away from the beech-tree where I had laid you comfortably. This time I'll treat you in my fashion; Mamsell Westphalen is not here now," and, so saying, he cut the buttons off the Frenchman's trowsers: "And now, allong, avang!"--And in this way, they set off back through Demzin towards Pinnow.
The Bailiff walked by their side in the heavy rain, silent--and angry, though chiefly with himself; for whenever he tried to throw the blame on Friedrich's shoulders, he could not help saying to himself: "He is a rascal,--but he's a devilish clever fellow too. How could he know, I wonder, that the Frenchman was lying in the oven. And then his cutting off the buttons, what could he mean by that? I must make a note of the trick."