He went over to the bed, took one of Pons' hands in both his own, and within himself put up a fervent prayer.
"What is that that you are mumbling in German?"
"I asked Gott dat He vould take us poth togedders to Himself!" Schmucke answered simply when he had finished his prayer.
Pons bent over—it was a great effort, for he was suffering intolerable pain; but he managed to reach Schmucke, and kissed him on the forehead, pouring out his soul, as it were, in benediction upon a nature that recalled the lamb that lies at the foot of the Throne of God.
"See here, listen, my good Schmucke, you must do as dying people tell you—"
"I am lisdening."
"The little door in the recess in your bedroom opens into that closet."
"Yes, but it is blocked up mit bictures."
"Clear them away at once, without making too much noise."
"Yes."