Through Habermann's persuasions the quarrel was made up, and the three farmers went to the field, Kurz making close calculations, and reeling off his agricultural phrases, while Bräsig said to himself, "Who is riding on the donkey now?"
"I have a piece of ground here," said Kurz, "measuring a hundred and fifty square rods, and I have bought ten cartloads of manure from Kränger the butcher, real, fat, slaughter-house manure; I am going to plant beets; I had it strewed yesterday; is'nt that enough, gentlemen? Look here!" and he turned out of the road into the field.
"Very badly strewed!" said Bräsig. "A properly manured field should look like a velvet cover," and he began to poke the lumps apart with his stick.
"Never mind," said Kurz, "something will grow, it is good slaughter-house manure, cost me ten thalers."
All at once he stood stock still, caught at the air with his hands, and looked wildly around him.
"Good heavens!" cried Bräsig, "what is the matter?"
"Thunder and lightening!" cried Kurz, "the devil is in it! This is not my field, this next one is mine, and that confounded rascal has gone and put my manure on another field! And I told him to do it! Ten thalers! And the carting! And the strewing! Isn't it enough to make one crazy?"
"Eh, Kurz, that is not so bad," said Habermann, "that can be settled, your neighbor will be good-natured, and pay for the manure."
"That is the very thing!" cried Kurz. "This is baker Wredow's field, whom I have such a quarrel with about the stadtbullen; he had better take care!"
"There's a farmer for you," said Bräsig very quietly, "carting his manure into other people's fields!"