"I don't mean that," said the Herr Rathsherr. "I mean as to our reception."
The baker's pint measure was running over again: "What?" he asked.
"Our reception with a triumphal arch."
The contents of the pint measure were now running over very fast:--"Reception! Triumphal arch! What? Is our Duke coming then?"
"No, Witte, he is not coming, but we are coming."
It was now just as if some one had given Witte's arm a jerk, while he was pouring the milk into the measure, so that half of it went on to the floor. This was lucky, for now there was room for the Herr Rathsherr's explanation.
"I say, Witte, that we are coming. Ought not the burghers of a town like ours to erect a triumphal arch for their fellow-burghers and officers of state, who have suffered for the Fatherland, just as much as for a Duke?--But who is to do it? The old Amtshauptmann? The Burmeister? They won't be thinking of such a thing. Or do you think the old Rector, because he once made a thing of a 'transparency?' That was a fine thing!--Or old Metz? There's as much sense in his talk, baker Witte, as in a squirrel's tail.--Or old Zoch? He can blow his horn on the watch tower, nothing else.--Ah! if I were there!"
"But, at this time of year, Herr Rathsherr," said the Baker, "where could you get flowers and evergreens from?"
"Flowers? What do old Heimann Kasper, and Leip, and the other Jews, sell red and yellow ribbons for? Evergreens! For what purpose has the town of Stemhagen raised a fir plantation in the State Forest?"
"That's true," said old Witte, for the pint measure was now full again.