all a space. It must
have required constant patience and forbearance; for, had he ever drawn
himself up to his full height, he would infallibly have carried off the
roof.

"I am delighted to see you in my house, sir," said Sturm, taking Anton's
hand in his immense grasp as gently as he could.

"It is rather small for you, Mr. Sturm," answered Anton, laughing. "I
never thought you so large as I do now."

"My father was still taller," was the complacent reply; "taller and
broader. He was the chief of the porters, and the strongest man in the
place; and yet a small barrel, not half so high as you are, was the
death of him. Be seated, sir," said he, lifting an oaken chair, so heavy
that Anton could hardly move it. "My Karl has told me that he has been
to see you, and that you were most kind. He is a good boy, but he is a
falling off as to size. His mother was a little woman," added Sturm,
mournfully, draining a quart of beer to the last drop. "It is draught
beer," he said, apologetically; "may I offer you a glass? It is a custom
among us to drink no other, but certainly we drink this the whole day
through, for our work is heating."

"Your son wishes to become one of your number, I hear," said Anton.

"A porter!" rejoined the giant. "No, that he never shall." Then laying
his hand confidentially on Anton's knee, "It would never do; my dear
departed wife besought me against it on her death-bed. And why? Our
calling is respectable, as you, sir, best know. There are not many who
have the requisite strength, and still fewer who have the requisite--"

"Integrity," said Anton.

"You are right," nodded Sturm. "Always to have wares of every kind in
immense quantities under our eyes, and never to touch one of them--this
is not in every body's line. And our earnings are very fair too. My dear
departed saved a good deal of money, gold as well as silver. But that is
not my way. For why? If a man be practical, he need not plague himself
about money, and Karl will be a practical man. But he must not be a
porter. His mother would not hear of it, and she was right."

"Your work is very laborious," suggested Anton.

"Laborious!" laughed Sturm; "it may be laborious for the weak, but it is
not that. It is this," and he filled his glass; "it is the draught
beer."

Anton smiled. "I know that you and your colleagues drink a good deal of
this thin stuff."

"A good deal," said Sturm, with self-complacency; "it is a custom of
ours--it a