“There isn’t a worthier man than Shund,” declared a shopkeeper.
“And not a cleverer,” said a carpenter.
“And none more demoralized,” lauded a joiner, unconscious of the import of his encomium.
“That’s so, and therefore I am satisfied with him,” assured a shoemaker.
“So am I—so am I,” chorussed the others eagerly.
“That is sensible, gentlemen,” approved the bald man. “Just keep in harmony with liberalism and progress, and you will never be the worse for it, gentlemen. Above all, beware of reaction—do not fall back into the immoral morasses of the middle ages. Let us guard the light and liberty of our beautiful age. Vote for these men,” and he produced a package of printed tickets, “and you will enjoy the delightful consciousness of having disposed of your vote in the interests of the common good.”
Spitzkopf distributed the tickets on which were the names of the councilmen elect. At the head of the list appeared in large characters the name of Mr. Hans Shund.
“The curtain falls, the farce is ended,” said Greifmann. “What you have here heard and seen has been repeated at every table where ‘wild men’ chanced to make their appearance. Everywhere the same arguments, the same grounds of conviction.”
Seraphin had become quite grave, and cast his eyes to the ground in silence.
“By Jove, the rogue is going to try his hand on us!” said Carl, nudging the thoughtful young man. “The bald-headed fellow has spied us, and is getting ready to bag a couple of what he takes to be ‘wild men.’ Come, let us be off.”