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When the old man represented to him that he would only have to study a very little, he remarked that nothing at all was still better; and when the Bridge Farmer asseverated by all that was holy that he would become a saint, just like those plaster men in the church at Eynhofen, he replied that he didn't care a straw. Everything was fruitless.
In those parts the people speak German as well as in Eynhofen, and they roast chickens and ducks on the spit, but no missionaries. There Fottner spent his days in peace and contentment, and soon weighed two hundred and fifty, not a pound less. For the Bridge Farmer, who would have liked to see Matt as a saint, this was a disappointment. And for the Hindians too.
Matt told him that all he'd ever thought and known was that he'd simply have to study what the priest in Eynhofen knew. But he'd never heard him say a word of Greek all his life long, and so he hadn't been prepared for anything like that. To this no objection could be made; on Matt's part the deal was straight and O. K. The rascality was on the part of the others, off there in Freising.
A mile and a half from Eynhofen stood the first triumphal arch, which was adorned with fresh fir-branches and with blue and white flags. At the entrance to the village another arch stood, and a third was set up near the tavern. From the steeple floated the yellow and white banner, salutes were crashing on the hill behind the Stackel Farm, and the Aufhausen band pealed out its ringing airs.
And as he showed himself apt in the drill manual, he gained the favor of the captain, and after only eight months he was duly appointed a petty officer. All this would have been correct and pleasing, and all mankind, including Eynhofen, might have been satisfied with the life destiny of Matthew Fottner. But a worm was gnawing at the heart of the Bridge Farmer.
When the dishes were passed around to take up offerings during the festival dinner, the gifts flowed in so copiously that two thousand marks were left over for the licentiate. It was an elevating occasion. The people of Eynhofen thought the newly consecrated priest would board the very next ship and go off to the wild Hindians. Old Mrs.
Now he was running around Eynhofen with glasses on his nose and a belly like an alderman. He looked like a regular Vicar, sure enough, who was going to begin reading mass the next day. And all the time he was nothing, absolutely nothing. The only person who remained calm under these blows of fate was the quondam stud. lit. Matthew Fottner.
But whoso has no horses, and makes a pair of lean oxen draw his plow, is a cotter and must hold his tongue. In the tavern, in the town meeting, and everywhere. His opinion is worthless, and no regular farmer pays any attention to the poor beggar. The professor of the Cobbler-Sebastian property, house number eight in Eynhofen, George Fottner by name, was a cotter. And a beggarly one at that.
And when the Bridge Farmer's anger had lost its edge, he again began to brood and plan. But because it was a matter that concerned book-learning, his own wisdom did not satisfy him; so he resolved to go straight to the right shop and ask a priest's advice. The one at Eynhofen he did not trust; not since that time long ago, when the priest had told him such barefaced lies about Greek.
And the Eynhofen folks that were forever quizzing him in the tavern about his Latin officer, they should open their eyes, too, one of these days. On the very next day he took the train to Munich. No joy is complete, and the palm of victory is never to be gained with easy toil. This was the experience of the Bridge Farmer when he communicated his plan to the royal corporal Matthew Fottner.
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