[THE FAMINE AMONG THE GNOMES.]
I believe it was in the winter of 18— (but it does not matter so much about the time) that the servants on the large estate of Halthorp raised a great ado about something or other. Whereupon the Baron of Halthorp, who was too stout to walk down the stairs on slight provocation, called his steward, in a voice like that of an angry lion, and asked him, “Why in the name of Moses he did not keep the rascals quiet.”
“But, your lordship,” stammered the steward, who was as thin as the baron was stout, “I have kept them quiet for more than a month past, though it has been hard enough. Now they refuse to obey me unless I admit them to your lordship’s presence, that they may state their complaint.”
“Impudent beggars!” growled the old gentleman. “Tell them that I am about to take my after-dinner nap, and that I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“I have told them that a dozen times,” whined the steward, piteously. “But they are determined to leave in a body, unless your lordship consents to hear them.”
“Leave! They can’t leave,” cried his honor. “The law binds them. Well, well, to save talking, fling the doors open and let them come in.”
The steward hobbled away to the great oak-panelled doors (I forgot to tell you that he limped in his left foot), and, cautiously turning the knob and the key, peeped out into the hall. There stood the servants—twenty-eight in all—but, oh! what a sight! They were hollow-cheeked, with hungry eyes and bloodless lips, and deep lines about their mouths, as if they had not seen food for weeks. Their bony hands twitched nervously at the coarse clothes that flapped in loose folds about their lean and awkward limbs. They were indeed a pitiful spectacle. Only a single one of them—and that was of course the cook—looked like an ordinary mortal, or an extraordinary mortal, if you like, for he was nearly as broad as he was long. It was owing to the fact that he walked at the head of the procession, as they filed into the parlor, that the baron did not immediately discover the miserable condition of the rest. But when they had faced about, and stood in a long row from wall to wall—well, you would hardly believe it, but the baron, hard-hearted as he was, came near fainting. There is a limit to all things, and even a heart of steel would have been moved at the sight of such melancholy objects.
“Steward,” he roared, when he had sufficiently recovered himself, “who is the demon who has dared to trifle with my fair name and honor? Name him, sir—name him, and I will strangle him on the spot!”
The steward, even if he had been acquainted with the demon, would have thought twice before naming him under such circumstances. Accordingly he was silent.