ain to see how the thing went
exactly.

Nice sort of business this! There it was right enough: "Wilful
disobedience before all the other men!" Nothing else was to be made of
it.

But this Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider--by God!--he was not one of
the right sort, if the boy was telling the truth. With all due respect
for an officer, he seemed to be a perfect popinjay. There were people
like that here and there who were ready to burst with pride and
conceit, and who looked upon an inferior as scarcely a human being.

And again he snatched up the letter.

What the boy wrote was all very clear and straightforward honestly and
truthfully put. One could not help believing what was there on the
paper; and, of course, it was easy to understand how the thing had come
about. After all, every man has his feelings, whether he be a gunner or
a senior-lieutenant. The devil! he himself would have done exactly as
Franz did; though, of course, in his case life in a charity-school had
made him used to giving in to people. But the boy had always been so
independent, no one could help feeling for him.

And after all, when one looked at it rightly, it was a clumsy thing for
Lieutenant Brettschneider to have done, and his son's fault had been
the outcome of an unfortunate set of circumstances,--not a very serious
fault either, though the poor lad would have to pay for it dearly
enough!

Wilful disobedience--what sort of punishment would there be for that?
It had such an imposing, ceremonious sound! He racked his brains to
think whom he could ask about it. But there was no one in the village
who would be of any use.

After a sleepless night he rose from his bed with his decision made. He
milked the cow, and asked a neighbour to see to the animals during the
day. Then he put on his old-fashioned black Sunday coat and the top hat
which he only wore on great occasions, such as the king's birthday. On
his breast he fastened his medal and cross. Over all he wore his old
cloak, and he put some pieces of bread and sausage in his pocket. He
was ready for travelling.

On the way to the station he passed a field of barley. It was ripe for
cutting, and he had meant to begin reaping that morning. But what did
it matter about the barley? He had got to see after his boy and
petition for him. He would go straight to the right person: he would go
to the garrison and seek out the head of his son's battery, Captain von
Wegstetten.

Throughout