The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck’s head; but, at the instant, the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap than it flew out of Schwartz’s hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room.
“Who are you, sir?” demanded Schwartz, turning upon him.
“What’s your business?” snarled Hans.
“I’m a poor old man, sir,” the little gentleman began very modestly, “and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour.”
“Have the goodness to walk out again, then,” said Schwartz. “We’ve quite enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying-house.”
“It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray hairs!” They hung down to his shoulders, as I told you before.
“Ay!” said Hans, “there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!”
“I’m very, very hungry, sir; couldn’t you spare me a bit of bread before I go?”
“Bread, indeed!” said Schwartz. “Do you suppose we’ve nothing to do with our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you?”
“Why don’t you sell your feather?” said Hans, sneeringly. “Out with you!”