quietly, “what can I do for you?” Uncle Braesig now involved himself in such a labyrinth of words in his desire to speak grandly as befitted his company, that he would never have extricated himself if the squire had not come to the rescue.  Looking more attentively at Hawermann he said:  “You want * * *? but,” he interrupted himself, “I ought to know you.  Wait a moment.  Were you not serving your apprenticeship twelve years ago on my brother’s estate?” “Yes, Sir, and my name is Hawermann.”  “Of course it is.  And to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you here?” “I heard that you were looking out for a farm-bailiff, and as I was in want of just such a place * * *.”  “But I thought you had a farm in Pomerania?” interrupted the squire.  Now was the time for Braesig to speak if he was going to say anything of importance, so he exclaimed:  “It’s quite true, Mr. Councillor von Rambow, that he had one, had it, but has it no longer, and it’s no use crying over spilt milk.  Like many other farmers he met with reverses, and the hardness and wickedness of his landlord ruined him.  What do you think of that, Sir?”

At this moment there was a loud shout of laughter behind Braesig’s back, and when he turned round to see who it was he found himself face to face with a boy of ten or twelve years old.  Mr. von Rambow also smiled, but fortunately it never occurred to Braesig that their amusement could mean anything but satisfaction with a well delivered speech, so he went on seriously:  “And then he came a regular cropper.”  “I’m very sorry to hear it,” said Mr. von Rambow.  “Yes,” he continued with a, sigh, “these are very hard times for farmers, I only hope they’ll change soon.  But now to business—­Alick, just run upstairs and see if breakfast is ready.  It is quite true that I am looking out for a new bailiff, as I have been obliged to part with the last man, because of—­well, his carelessness in keeping accounts—­but,” said he, as his son opened the door and announced that breakfast was ready, “you hav’n’t had breakfast yet, we can finish our talk while we eat it.”  He went to the door, and standing there signed to his guests to precede him.  “Charles,” whispered Braesig, “didn’t I tell you?  Quite like one of ourselves?” But when Hawermann quietly obeyed the squire’s sign and went out first, he raised his eyebrows up to his hair, and stretched out his hand as though to pull his friend back by his coat-tails.  Then sticking out one of his short legs and making a low bow, he said, “Pardon me—­I couldn’t think of it—­the Councillor always has the paw.”  His way of bowing was no mere form, for as he had a long body and short legs it was both deep and reverential.