At last he turned to Anton with his eyes shut, and said, confidentially, "Nineteen hundred dollars. He came here once again."
"But you gave him nothing?" anxiously inquired Anton.
"Only a hundred dollars," said the old man, apologetically. "He is dead now, the poor young gentleman. He looked so handsome with his epaulettes. While a man is a son, he ought not to die: it gives too much sorrow."
"I have spoken of your claim to Herr von Fink," said Anton; "he will see that you are paid."
"That Karl is paid," suggested old Sturm, looking round; "and you, Mr. Wohlfart, will undertake to give into my boy's hands what remains in the chest, if I do not myself see my little fellow."
"If you don't give up this idea," cried Anton, "I shall become your foe, and shall treat you with the greatest severity. Early to-morrow morning you may expect me to bring you Mr. Schröter's doctor."
"He is a worthy man, no doubt," said Sturm; "his horses must be remarkably well fed, they are so fat and strong, but he can do nothing for me."
The following morning the doctor visited the invalid.
"I don't consider his case a serious one as yet," said he; "his feet are swollen, indeed, but that might soon be cured. However, his sedentary inactive life is so bad for a frame like his, and his diet is so unwholesome, that I am sorry to say the sudden development of some serious complaint is only too likely."
Anton immediately wrote off this opinion to Karl, and added, "Under these circumstances, your father's own impression that he shall not survive his fiftieth birth-day makes me very uneasy. It would be well that you should be with him at that time."