"But why are you selling the old man's property?" I asked again.
"To get money, naturally!"
"For whom?"
"For the numerous Jebucees, Sadducees, and publicans, to whom the old man was indebted. If they sell everything—to the brood of sparrows under the eaves!—there will not be enough money, by a good deal, to pay all he owes."
"Why," said I, "the old man was a good manager; and his wife an industrious and thrifty house-wife, when I knew them."
"And so they were! The old man was all right, until he took to drinking."
"Took to drinking? Why did he do that?"
"Well—you see, he had a worthless son, who ran away from home about ten years ago. The scamp joined a band of robbers; and when he left them, he gave out that he was a Polish count; played all manner of tricks; broke out of prison; robbed churches. Every year the news which came to the old man about his Hugo grew worse; until at last he was afraid to venture on the street, for the whole town was talking about his worthless son. So he took to drink—had it fetched to the house, and drank harder and harder—especially after his wife died—"
"Dead?" I interrupted. "Is the old dame dead?" my heart almost burst because I had to keep back the words "my mother."
"Yes, Master Soldier, she is dead, and it is a mercy the good old soul did not live to see this sorrowful day! But, you must excuse me. I have got to beat this drum, so that a good lot of people will come to the sale."