"Braesig," he said, "who is the best person to take
charge of my little girl?" "I can't think of any one. I'm afraid that we
must take her to the town to Kurz. Mrs. Kurz is an excellent woman, and
he, well he is a good hand at a bargain like all tradesmen. Only think,
he sold me a pair of trousers last year. I wanted them for Sundays--they
were a sort of chocolate color: well listen: the first morning I put
them on, I went through the clover-field, and when I came out of it, my
trousers were as red as lobsters, as high as the knee--bright scarlet I
assure you. And then he sent me some kuemmel, it was Prussian made,
wretched sweet stuff, and very bad. I returned it, and told him a bit
of my mind. But he won't take the trousers back, and tells me he never
wore them. Does the fellow imagine that _I_ will wear red trousers?
Look, Charles, that's Guerlitz down there to the left." "And that, I
suppose, is Guerlitz church-steeple?" asked Hawermann. "Yes!" said
Braesig, raising his eye-brows till they were hidden by the brim of his
hat--he always wore a hat on Sunday--and opening his mouth as wide as he
could, he stared at Hawermann as if he wanted to look him through and
through. "Charles," he exclaimed, "you spoke of Guerlitz church-steeple,
and as sure as your nose is in the middle of your face the parson at
Guerlitz must take your child." "Parson Behrens?" asked Hawermann.
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