Whereupon the little man craved, sadly whimpering, that he might be asked one question at a time, inasmuch as he felt as it were a swarm of humble-bees in his brain, and when Starch did his will he looked at the others as though to say:  “You did no justice to my ready wit,” and then he told that he had in truth drawn off the boots from the messenger’s feet and had been granted them to keep, by reason that they were too small for the others, while he was graced with a small and dainty foot.  And he cast a glance at us ladies on whom he had long had an eye, a sort of fearful leer, and went on:  “The tops—­they . . . " and again he stuck fast.  Howbeit, as Starch once more pointed to the pear-tree, he confessed in desperate terror that another man had claimed the tops, one who had not been caught, inasmuch as they were so high and good.  Hereupon Starch laughed so loud and clapped his hand with such a smack as made us maidens start, and he cried:  “That’s it, that is the way of it!  Zounds, ye knaves!  Then the Sow—­[Eber, his name, means a boar.  This is a sort of punning insult]—­of Wichsenstein was himself your leader yesterday, and it was only by devilish ill-hap that the knave was not with you when I took you!  You ragged ruffians would never have given over the tops in this marsh and moorland, to any but a rightful master, and I know where the Sow is lurking—­for the murderer of a messenger is no more to be called a Boar.  Now then, Sebald!  In what hamlet hereabout dwells there a cobbler?”

“There is crooked Peter at Neufess, and Hackspann at Reichelstorf,” was the answer.

“Good; that much we needed to know,” said Starch.  “And now, little one,” and he gave the man another shaking, “Out with it.  Did the Sow—­or, that there may be no mistake—­did Eber of Wichsenstein ride away to Neufess or to Reichelstorf?  Who was to sew the tops to his shoes, Peter or Hackspann?”

The terrified creature clasped his slender hands in sheer amazement, and cried:  “Was there ever such abounding wisdom born in the land since the time of chaste Joseph, who interpreted Pharaoh’s dreams?  The man who shall catch you asleep, my lord Captain, must rise earlier than such miserable hunted wretches as we are.  He rode to Neufess, albeit Hackspann is the better cobbler.  Reichelstorf lies hard by the highway by which you came, my lord; and if Eber does but hear the echo of your right glorious name, my lord Baron and potent Captain. . . .”

“And what is my name—­your lord Baron and potent Captain?” Starch thundered out.

“Yours?” said the little man unabashed.  “Yours?  Merciful Heaven!  Till this minute I swear I could have told you; but in such straits a poor little tailor such as I might forget his own father’s honored name!” At this Starch laughed out and clapped the little rogue in all kindness behind the ears, and when his men-at-arms, whom he had commanded to make ready, had mounted their horses, he cried to Uhlwurm:  “I may leave the rest to you, Master; you know where Barthel bestows the liquor!—­Now, Sebald, bind this rabble and keep them safe.—­And make a pig-sty ready.  If I fail to bring the boar home this very night, may I be called Dick Dule to the end of my days instead of Jorg Starch!”