“That’s a devil of a fellow, that brother of yours that’s here,” said Klaus Brock to Peer one day, as they were walking into town together with their books under their arms.
“Now, look here, Klaus, once for all, be good enough to stop calling him my brother. And another thing—you’re never to say a word to any one about my father having been anything but a farmer. My name’s Holm, and I’m called so after my father’s farm. Just remember that, will you?”
“Oh, all right. Don’t excite yourself.”
“Do you suppose I’d give that coxcomb the triumph of thinking I want to make up to him?”
“No, no, of course not.” Klaus shrugged his shoulders and walked on, whistling.
“Or that I want to make trouble for that fine family of his? No, I may find a way to take it out of him some day, but it won’t be that way.”
“Well, but, damn it, man! you can surely stand hearing what people say about him.” And Klaus went on to tell his story. Ferdinand Holm, it seemed, was the despair of his family. He had thrown up his studies at the Military Academy, because he thought soldiers and soldiering ridiculous. Then he had made a short experiment with theology, but found that worse still; and finally, having discovered that engineering was at any rate an honest trade, he had come to anchor at the Technical College. “What do you say to that?” asked Klaus.
“I don’t see anything so remarkable about it.”
“Wait a bit, the cream of the story’s to come. A few weeks ago he thrashed a policeman in the street—said he’d insulted a child, or something. There was a fearful scandal—arrest, the police-court, fine, and so forth. And last winter what must he do but get engaged, formally and publicly engaged, to one of his mother’s maids. And when his mother sent the girl off behind his back, he raised the standard of revolt and left home altogether. And now he does nothing but breathe fire and slaughter against the upper classes and all their works. What do you say to that?”
“My good man, what the deuce has all this got to do with me?”