Dr. Svoboda (To himself).—That is but little, very little indeed!
Broz.—And that has been put aside for pressing expenses.
Dr. Svoboda.—But I must have more!
Broz (With emphasis on the word “notes”).—And certain notes are due in three weeks.
Dr. Svoboda (Passing his hand over his forehead).—Do not talk to me about notes. A sacred duty demands the money of me.
Broz (Dryly).—Impossible to break a trust, I suppose.
Dr. Svoboda (Frightened).—Do not frighten me!
Broz.—If it were but a matter of a few hundred . . . .
Dr. Svoboda.—Ten thousand is the smallest amount that I can give!
Broz (With a harsh laugh).—Ten thousand! I cannot even meet those notes in three weeks, and now I shall be fortunate if I can borrow . . . .
Dr. Svoboda (Mopping his forhead).—The fields look promising, and the harvest ought to pay back all that we owe!
Broz.—That is, it can save the estate in a year’s time if no unforeseen occurrence or streak of ill-luck comes! The Lord grant that the present cloud looming up will blow over. If the harvest were to be lost, everything would go with it!
Dr. Svoboda.—You frighten me!
Broz.—I am always the black lining to your cloud! Would that I could be the silver one!
Dr. Svoboda (Sharply).—But I must contribute something to the cause!
Broz.—Better attend to your own floor first so it doesn’t cave through!
Dr. Svoboda.—Yes, that is the excellent principle of selfishness which screens itself by excuses regardless of the consequence to others, regardless of its duty to the nation and the people. That is the mask which screens that national avarice which refuses to see the herd of the hungry, the mask so neatly prepared that the people cannot hear the word, “Help!”
Broz.—And suppose that we, for the need of timely help, should perish ourselves?
Dr. Svoboda (Angrily).—Self-praise is unnecessary,—but might be better to perish than to drift on to that abyss where people perish with their principles. If each one of us should intelligently help, according to his own strength and ability, the
