The sounds of revelry subsided, in expectation of the advent of a stranger. Felix Merckel stretched out his legs and began to toy indifferently with his medal.
The door swung back. The new-comer brought a momentary stream of sunlight into the cool, darkened room. Without a word of greeting he walked to the buffet, behind which a barmaid sat knitting a stocking, and inquired if he could speak a few words with the mayor. The mayor was not at home; he had just gone out into the fields, the barmaid told him.
Herr Merckel was fond of leaving the inn in charge of his son, for he found the beer disappeared twice as fast from the barrels when he was not present. Felix adopted a method of stimulating customers to drink, which would not have been becoming in the host. He couched his invitations in military slang and in figures of speech learnt in the camp; to resist them would, the Schrandeners held, be casting a slight on their lieutenant, so it followed that Felix was the means of adding treasure to his father's exchequer.
He was piqued at the stranger in the Landwehr cap not vouchsafing him a salute, although he must have seen the officer's badge on his coat, and determined to ignore him.
"Can I wait here till the mayor comes back?" the stranger asked.
"Of course. This is the tap-room," the barmaid replied.
He took a seat in the farthest corner from the topers, with his back turned to them, put down his knapsack, and bowed his head in his hands.
Herr Felix regarded such conduct as a kind of challenge to himself. Like the true son of his father, he was indignant at a stranger coming in and ordering nothing to drink.
"Ask the gentleman, Amalie, what he will take," he called out, bursting with a sense of his own importance. Apparently the stranger didn't hear, for he took no notice. The barmaid stood behind his chair and stammered something about the excellent quality of Schrandener beer.
"Thank you; I will drink nothing," he replied, without looking up.