a clean tin box. It was clear that the day's work was almost at an end for
all present. At that moment Fischelowitz entered with jaunty step and
smiling face, jingling a quantity of loose silver in his hand. He is a
little man, rotund and cheerful, quiet of speech and sunny in manner, with
a brown beard and waving dark hair, arranged in the manner dear to
barbers' apprentices. He has very soft brown eyes, a healthy complexion
and a nose the inverse of aquiline, for it curves upwards to its sharp
point, as though perpetually snuffing after the pleasant fragrance of his
favourite "Dubec otborny."

"Well, my children," he said, with a slight stammer that somehow lent an
additional kindliness to his tone, "what has the day's work been? You
first, Herr Graf," he added, turning to the Count. "I suppose that you
have made a thousand at least?"

Fischelowitz possessed in abundance the tact which was lacking in Johann
Schmidt, the Cossack. He well knew that the Count had made double the
quantity, but he also knew that the latter enjoyed the small triumph of
producing twice what seemed to be expected of him.

"Two thousand, Herr Fischelowitz," he said, proudly. Then seeing that his
employer was counting out the sum of six marks, he made a deprecating
gesture, as though refusing all payment.

"No," he said, with great dignity, and rising from his seat. "No. You must
allow me, on this occasion, to refuse the honorarium usual under the
circumstances."

"And why, my dear Count?" inquired Fischelowitz, shaking the six marks in
one hand and the remainder of his money in the other, as though weighing