"Why, Kurz," said Habermann, "the seed wasn't quite ripe. I tried it on the hot shovel, and if it is the right kind, the kernels will spring up, like flies, from the shovel, but here many kernels lay still."
"You don't look quite so blooming, my honored friend," said the rector to Bräsig, "as at the time when we drank punch together, at the betrothals."
"There is reason for that," said Habermann, throwing his arm over Bräsig's shoulder, "my old friend has bad a touch of Podagra again."
"Yes, yes," laughed the rector, growing quite merry:
"Vinum the father,
And cœna the mother,
And Venus the nurse,
Produce the Podagra."
"The seed is beautiful!" cried Kurz, "you will find no better between Grimmen and Greifswald."
"Ho, ho, Kurz," said Habermann, "not go fast! I have a word to say----"
"Listen to me!" said Bräsig, across to the rector. "Don't come near me with your French! I don't understand it. What did you say about Fenus? What have I, and my cursed Podagra, to do with Fenus?"
"My honored friend and benefactor," said the rector, with unction, "Venus was, in antiquity, the goddess of love."
"It is all one to me," said Bräsig, "she might be something very different, for all I care,--now-a-days, every stupid sheep-dog is called Fenus."