“Do you hear me, Hans Peter? There is a quarter in my pocket for you. I will find two quarters if you walk faster. Do you know what I say to you?”
The boy replaced his cap, nodded his head, and answered, with a German accent:
“Thou art talking to the simple one, the village fool, sir. But Hans Peter knows thou wouldst give him silver.”
It was the first time that the boy had spoken since the station agent had called him by name and told him to show the stranger to the inn in the village of Zanah, just across the hill. The man gave his guide a sharp look. Hans Peter had a round face that was as blank as if no human emotion had ever been written upon it. His pale eyes had a sleepy look, and yet there was nothing in their expression to indicate lack of intelligence.
“The village fool—nonsense,” said the stranger. “Here is one piece of silver. See if it can’t loosen your tongue.”
“Thy money belongs to Zanah, where no man is richer than another,” said Hans Peter. “I will give it to the Herr Doktor.”
“For a fool you speak well,” said the stranger, casting a glance of curiosity at the boy. “Why are you called the simple one?”
Hans Peter put his hands in his pockets and answered:
“It may be because I talk too much to strangers.”
The man laughed. He had a clear-cut, clean-shaven face, which was almost stern in repose, but when he smiled it was plain that the spirit of youth still dwelt in him.