"What is that?"
"Cotton is still going up," the clerk replied. "To-day we have made six thousand——"
He did not finish. Adler had torn the message from his hands and thrown it in his face.
"You low vermin!" he shouted. "How dare you tell me such a thing! The very dogs run away from my grief with their tails between their legs, and you talk to me of six thousand roubles!... Can you bring back a day—even half a day—to me?"
Boehme came running into the office.
"Gottlieb," he cried, "the carriage is waiting; come to my house with me."
The mill-owner drew himself up to his full height and put both his hands in his pockets.
"Oh, you are there, St. Martin!" he said ironically. "No, I will not go with you to your house! I will say even more. Not a single farthing shall I leave to you or your Józio! Do you hear? I dare say you are a servant of the Lord, and His wisdom speaks through your tongue, but not a farthing will you get from me. My fortune belongs to my son."
"What are you talking about, Gottlieb?" the pastor said, shocked.
"I am talking plainly. This is a plot to put your son in here to order the factory people about.... You have killed my son, and you would like to kill me; but I am not one of those fools who want to spend their money on the salvation of their souls...."