Now they could begin. Six spans of horses were fastened to six harvest wagons, and driven in a row, up to the yard,--order is the principal thing,--on one side stood the pitchers and stackers for the barns, on the other the pitchers, loaders and rakers for the field, and, on a given sign, the stackers marched off to the barns, and the field people climbed into the wagons; Axel and Fritz rode on, the wagons followed, and never in the world had there been such order, in the Pumpelhagen farm-yard, as on this fine afternoon; and we must have order.
The old wheelwright, Fritz Flegel, stood in his workshop, and looked at the procession: "What is all that for?" said he, scratching his head, for he had no appreciation of this beautiful order. "Well, it is none of my concern," he said and went back to his work, "but where is our old Herr Inspector?"
He was sitting in his room thinking; the first heat had passed, he stood up and wrote a brief letter, resigning his post at the next Christmas, and asking leave of absence, during the harvest, since he was superfluous under these circumstances; then he took his hat and stick, and went out, he could stay in doors no longer. He sat down on a stone wall, under the shade of a lilac bush, and looked along the road to Warnitz, from which the harvest wagons must come; but they came not, only Bräsig came along the road.
"May you keep the nose on your face, Karl, what sort of performances are you carrying on here? How can you get your rye in yet? it is green as grass! And how can you bring it in with six wagons in one gang? and what keeps the loaded wagons down there in the road?"
"Bräsig, I don't know, you must ask the Herr and Triddelsitz."
"What?"
"Bräsig, I have nothing more to say."
"What? How? What did you say?" cried Bräsig, elevating his eyebrows.
"I have nothing more to say," said Habermann quietly, "I am shoved aside, I am too old for the young Herr."
"Karl," said Bräsig, laying his hand on his old friend's shoulder, "what is the matter? Tell me about it!"