ased
with the boy simply because he had been naughty?

He got up from the sofa, threw the remains of his cigar into the
ash-tray and went out to look for Wolfgang.

He came across the four in the height of the game. They had lighted
a small fire on the waste piece of ground close behind the garden
railing, so that the overhanging bushes in the garden formed a kind of
roof over them.

They were crouching close together; they were in camp now. Frida had
some potatoes in her pinafore, which were to be roasted in the ashes;
but the fire would not burn, the twigs only smouldered. Wolfgang lay on
his stomach on the ground, resting on his elbows, and was blowing with
all the strength of his lungs. But it was not enough, the fire would
not burn on any account.

Paul Schlieben had come up softly, the children had not noticed him
at all in their eagerness. "Won't it burn?" he asked.

Wolfgang jerked himself up, and was on his feet in a moment. He had
been red and fresh-looking, but now he grew pale, his frank look fell
timidly, a miserable expression lengthened his round, childish face and
made him look older.

"Have I to go in?" It sounded pitiful.

The man pretended not to hear the question; he had really intended
fetching him in, but all at once he hesitated to say so. It was hard
for the boy to have to go away now before the fire burnt, before the
potatoes were roasted. So he said nothing, but stooped down, and as he
was not far enough down even then he knelt down and blew the fire, that
was faintly crackling, with all the breath he had in his broad chest.
Sparks began to leap out at once, and a small flame shot up and soon
turned into a big one.

There was a shout of glee. Frida hopped about in the circle, her
plaits flying: "It's burning, it's burning!" Artur and Hans chimed in
too; they also hopped from the one foot to the other, clapped their
dirty hands and shouted loudly: "It's burning, it's burning!"

"Be quiet, children." The man was amused at their happiness. "Bring
me some twigs, but very dry ones," he ordered, full of eagerness, too,
to keep alive this still uncertain flame, that now disappeared, now
flared up again. He blew and poked and added more twigs. The wind drove
the smoke into his face so that he had to cough, but he wiped his eyes,
that were full of tears, and did not mind that his trousers got wet
green spots from kneeling on the ground, and that chance passers-by
would be greatly surprised t