opened their scrips, and dined on cold meat, still keeping their respective stations. Franz wished to follow their example; but, having no provisions with him, he purchased some fruit, which he ate as he walked along. The members of the club, as they sat at dinner, remarked how long he had been haunting the same spot, without speaking to any one, or, like themselves, transacting business. They set him down for an idle youth, though most of them had experienced his benevolence; and he did not escape their facetious observations. At length, they gave him the title of the bridge-surveyor. The old soldier, however, noticed that his face no longer betokened the same cheerfulness; that he seemed to have some serious business upon his mind; his hat was slouched over his eyes, his step slow and cautious; while he was engaged in eating the remnant of an apple, as if hardly conscious of what he was doing.
The old physiognomist wished to apply his observations to some profit; he set his natural and artificial leg both in motion, passed to the other side of the bridge, and prepared to ask our musing hero for more alms, as if he had been a fresh comer. He succeeded—the thoughtful visionary only thrust his hand into his pocket, and threw a piece of money without even looking at him.
After dinner, numbers of new faces appeared; but not a single person spoke to poor Franz, who now began to grow impatient. His attention was still fixed upon every respectable passenger; strange, he thought, that no one addressed him—that all should pass him without the least notice; very few even deigning to return his salutation.
As he was leaving the bridge, he met the old soldier, who had been, meanwhile, busily guessing at the motive of the poor young fellow, in watching on the bridge the whole day. He waited longer than usual, to see whether he would take his departure, until his patience being quite exhausted, he could not resist his curiosity to inquire into the reason of his turning the bridge into a dwelling-place. “Pray, sir,” he began, “may I be permitted to ask—?”
Franz, by no means in a communicative humour, and finding the long expected address come from the lips of an old mendicant, answered rather sharply—“What do you want, old greybeard? Speak out.”
“Sir,” said the old man, “you and I were the first who took our stations on the bridge to-day, and you see we are the last to leave it. As for me and my companions, it is our business; but you do not belong to our fraternity, and yet you have passed all the day here. May I be informed, if it be no secret, what can have been your reason, and what weighs so much upon your mind, that you want to get clear of here?”
“What boots it for thee to know, my old fellow, what ails me, and what lies so heavy upon my heart? it can avail thee nothing.”
