"Phelax," I said, "that was what you might have been if you had stayed at home and studied those lessons."
I felt I could not look at the Panther any longer, and went wandering miserably around the town. It was dark. Three or four sailors came down the street. They were talking and laughing. One of them, a gigantic fellow, spoke in broad Saxon. When I heard my native dialect, I thought to myself: "In the darkness nobody can see how you look. It would be good to talk a few words in Saxon."
"Hello, Landsmann," I sang out, and I never let myself go so broadly in the Saxon dialect as I did then.
He stopped and talked with me. He was a stoker on the Panther and hailed from Zwickau in Saxony.
Those fellows made me tell them about my plight. Could they spare me a piece of bread? I asked.
"Sure," replied the Saxon. "Meet me at the end of the pier at six bells. I have no more time now. I must go back on board."
I was at the end of the pier fifteen minutes ahead of time. The Saxon came off the ship and gave me a great loaf of rye bread.
"Come to-morrow at the same time," he said, "and there will be another loaf for you."
I did not sleep that night, but passed the hours on the beach eating that bread. I nibbled it in slow bites so that I might not lose any of the delight.
The Saxon gave me a loaf of bread every night, and finally said: