“Have what?”
“My dear fellow, the ten gilders.”
“Ten devils!—I tell you, I don’t owe you a farthing.”
“Really, Wolstang, this joke is very silly. We know you are an odd fellow, but this is the most foolish prank I ever saw you play.”
“Wolstang again!” said I, my heart boiling with indignation. “I tell you, sir—I tell you, sir, that—that—” I could not get out another word, to such a degree had indignation confounded me. Without finishing my sentence, I rushed into the street, but not without hearing the person say, “By heaven, he is either mad or drunk!”
In a moment I was at Wolstang’s lodgings, and set the knocker agoing with violence. The door was opened by his servant-girl Louise, a buxom wench of some eighteen or twenty.
“Is Mr Wolstang in?” I demanded quickly.
“Mr who, sir?”
“Mr Wolstang, my dear.”