“Where?” asked Elsbeth, turning with curiosity.
“Boy, why are you hanging about in the dark?” shouted his father.
Then he had to come out, in spite of all; and burning with shame, his cap in his hand, he stood before Elsbeth, who leaned her head on her hand and looked up at him smilingly.
“Yes, that’s what he always is: a real sneaker,” said his father, giving him a clap on the shoulder, and the unknown young gentleman pushed his hair from his forehead and smiled half good-naturedly, half ironically.
Then old Douglas rose, went up to him, and seized both his hands. “Hold up your head, young friend,” he called out, with his lion’s voice. “You have no reason to lower your eyes—you, least of all the world. He who can at the age of twenty do what you do is a capital fellow and need not hide himself. I won’t make you conceited, but just ask who could bear comparison with you. You, perhaps, Leo?” He turned to the young fop, who answered, with a merry laugh,
“You must make the best of me as I am, dear uncle.”
“If only there was anything in you to make the best of, you good-for-nothing!” replied Douglas. “This, you must know, is my nephew, Leo Heller, a new edition of ‘Fritz Triddlefitz.’”
“Uncle, I’ll have my revenge.”
“Be quiet, you scoundrel.”
“Uncle, I’ll wager twenty glasses which of us lies under the table first.”