n the sides of the knapsack are
little pouches, containing brushes, blacking, and soap; and in his
breast-pocket is stowed away a little flask of brandy-schnaps, to revive
his drooping spirits on the road. A stout stick completes his equipment.
A last adieu from the one friend of his heart, who will walk a few miles
with him on the way--and so he is launched fairly on his journey.

Hans finds the road much harder, and his knapsack heavier than he had
expected. Now he is drenched with rain, and can get no shelter; and,
when he does, he will find straw an inconvenient substitute for a bed.
At last he arrives at Berlin. He has picked up a companion on the road;
and, as it frequently happens that several trades hold their meetings in
the same house, they both are bound to the same Herberge. Through
strange, half-lighted streets, along narrow edges of pavement, they
proceed till they enter a court, or wynd, with no footpath at all, and
they are in the Schuster Gasse, before the door of the Herberge. The
comrade of Hans announces them as they pass the bar, and the next moment
they are in the travellers' room, amid as motley a group as ever met
within four walls.

Tumult and hubbub. An indescribable odour of tobacco, cummin (carraway),
and potato-salad. A variety of hustled blouses. Sunburnt and haggard
faces. Ragged beards and unkempt locks. A strong pipe hanging from
every lip; beer, or kummil (a spirit prepared with cummin) at every hand.
Wild snatches of song, and hurried bursts of dialogue. Some are all
violence and uproar; some are half dead with sleep and fatigue, their
arms sprawling about the tables. Such is the inside of a German trade
traveller's room.

Hans and his companion hand over their papers to the "father" as a
security, and their knapsacks to a sluttish-looking girl, who deposits
them in a cupboard in the corner of the room, and locks the door upon
them. Our travellers order a measure of Berliner Weiss Bier, to be in
keeping with the rest, and long for the hour of sleep. At length, a
stout young man enters, carrying a lighted lantern, and in a loud voice
of authority summonses all to bed. And there is a scrambling and
hustling among some of the travellers, a hasty guzzling of beer and
spirits, and a few low murmurs at being disturbed, but none dare disobey.

A shambling troop of sixteen or eighteen, they quit the room, and enter a
small paved yard, preceded by the young man with the lanter