"Ah! An only son—a great pet, I'll warrant," said his guest, finishing his last morsel of supper. "What age may he be?"
"Ten years old—fine boy—just like me—bringing him up like his father," said the strange individual.
"If he turns out like his father, he'll be a beauty," thought my ancestor. Then he asked aloud of his host:
"And what profession may that be that you wish to apprentice him to?"
"Like his father," was the curt reply; but it was followed by the same sort of expressive gesture that I have just described.
"What!" exclaimed the student, "to cut off people's heads?"
"Yes," replied the ruffian; "I am a Scharfrichter."
"A what?" inquired my ancestor, who though he could make himself generally understood in German, had never yet come across the word "Scharfrichter" in his vocabulary.
"A Scharfrichter," repeated the man, raising his voice. "Don't you know what that means? Why, one who cuts off heads."
"An executioner!" muttered the foreigner, half-aloud. "Have I been constrained to crave the hospitality of an executioner?"