!"

The turnpike-keeper, Friedrich August Vogt, was gazing in surprise on a
letter which the postman had just pushed in at the little window. The
superscription was in the hand-writing of his son, but the post-mark
bore the name of the capital.

What was the boy doing there? He had written nothing as to any
prospective change. Well, the letter itself must explain.

At first the old man could not understand the written words. He read
them through a second and a third time. At last he comprehended what
had happened. He sat on his chair as if paralysed, and read the last
page of the letter over and over again without attaching any meaning to
it.

His son wrote from the prison where he was now detained as a prisoner
awaiting trial. He related all that had passed straightforwardly and
without excusing himself.

"To-day I have been shown the charge against me," he concluded. "It is
a case of wilful disobedience before all the other men. I believe it is
an offence that is rather severely punished, and I know, too, that I am
not without blame. But perhaps, dear father, you will not condemn me
altogether; perhaps you will be able to imagine what my feelings must
have been. For your sake alone I ought to have been able to control
myself, and I beg you to forgive me for not having done so."

The turnpike-keeper jumped up suddenly from his chair. He flung the
letter violently down on the table and struck it with his fist. He felt
full of uncontrollable anger against this boy, who had brought shame
upon him in his old age at the end of an honourable and blameless life.
And why? because my gentleman did not choose to obey orders! because he
had chosen to feel injured! A soldier to feel himself "injured" by the
blame of his superior! So these were the new-fangled times of no
discipline and no respect for one's betters!

And this was the reward of his trouble in bringing up the boy to be
loyal and true: that he had now got a son in prison! When the
neighbours asked: "Your son is in the artillery, isn't he?" he must
reply: "Oh, no; he was once! Now he is carting sand." "What! carting
sand?" "Oh, yes; he is carting sand, dressed in a grey shirt, and with
a lot of other gentlemen in a long row A Oh, very honourable gentlemen,
all of them! A thief on one side of him, and on the other a person who
did not quite know the difference between mine and thine." "Your son!"
"My son, neighbour."

The turnpike-keeper seized the letter ag