the hand of
Providence! I warned that Gert if he went to play upon the wharves any
more he would hear from me. Now look at this boy and say what you
think."

'The Indian looked me over whole minutes--there was a musical clock on
the wall and dolls came out and hopped while the hour struck. He looked
me over all the while they did it.

'"Good," he says at last. "This boy is good."

'"Good, then," says Toby. "Now I shall play my fiddle and you shall sing
your hymn, brother. Boy, go down to the bakery and tell them you are
young Gert Schwankfelder that was. The horses are in Davy Jones's
locker. If you ask any questions you shall hear from me."

'I left 'em singing hymns and I went down to old Conrad Gerhard. He
wasn't at all surprised when I told him I was young Gert Schwankfelder
that was. He knew Toby. His wife she walked me into the back yard
without a word, and she washed me and she cut my hair to the edge of a
basin, and she put me to bed, and Oh! how I slept--how I slept in that
little room behind the oven looking on the flower garden! I didn't know
Toby went to the _Embuscade_ that night and bought me off Dr. Karaguen
for twelve dollars and a dozen bottles of Seneca Oil. Karaguen wanted a
new lace to his coat, and he reckoned I hadn't long to live; so he put
me down as "discharged sick."'

'I like Toby,' said Una.

'Who was he?' said Puck.

'Apothecary Tobias Hirte,' Pharaoh replied. 'One Hundred and Eighteen,
Second Street--the famous Seneca Oil man, that lived half of every year
among the Indians. But let me tell my tale my own way, same as his brown
mare used to go to Lebanon.'

'Then why did he keep her in Davy Jones's locker?' Dan asked.

'That was his joke. He kept her under David Jones's hat shop in the
"Buck" tavern yard, and his Indian friends kept their ponies there when
they visited him. I looked after the horses when I wasn't rolling pills
on top of the old spinet, while he played his fiddle and Red Jacket sang
hymns. I liked it. I had good victuals, light work, a suit o' clean
clothes, a plenty music, and quiet, smiling German folk all around that
let me sit in their gardens. My first Sunday, Toby took me to his church
in Moravian Alley; and that was in a garden too. The women wore
long-eared caps and handkerchiefs. They came in at one door and the men
at another, and there was a brass chandelier you could see your face in,
and a nigger-boy to blow the organ bellows. I carried Toby's fiddle