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The old man used to stay for weeks in Szeged and enjoy the boy's society. They were often seen walking arm in arm on the banks of the Tisza, and when they and Kupeczky talked Slovak together, every one turned at the sound of the strange language, wondering which of the many it was that had been invented at the Tower of Babel.
Of course, you understand me, sir?" Kupeczky himself often said: "Yes, that will be the end of it. Who will bet with me?" It would have been the end, and the correct way too, for Gregorics was fond enough of the boy to do a correct thing for once in a way. But two things happened to prevent the carrying out of this plan.
Precaution now became his mania. He took Kupeczky into his house, and the old professor had to be with the boy day and night, and taste every bit of food he was to eat. If Gyuri went outside the gates, he was first stripped of his velvet suit and patent leather shoes, and dressed in a ragged old suit kept on purpose, and allowed to run barefoot.
At these times Kupeczky secretly disappeared from the town too, though he might as well have been accompanied by a drum and fife band, for not a soul would have asked where he was going. Doubtless there was a lot of exaggeration in all this secrecy and precaution, but exaggeration had a large share in Gregorics's character.
The boatmen, astonished, gazed at one another, then the younger man began to pull off his boots. "Are you joking, sir, or do you mean it?" "Here are the hundred florins," said Gregorics, taking a bank-note from his pocket-book. The young man, a fine specimen of a Szeged fisherman, turned to Kupeczky.
As for Kupeczky, he could not remember it, for as soon as the news came from Besztercebánya that old Gregorics was dead, he took to his bed and never rose from it again. "I am dying, Gyuri," he said to his sobbing pupil, "I feel it. It was only Gregorics kept me alive, or rather I kept myself alive for his sake. But now I'm done for.
The most delicious apples grew here, and that had induced old Gregorics to buy the orchard and house from the widow of the clergyman; he had made a present of both to little Gyuri, and it was entered in his name. When the boy was at home he used to study there with Kupeczky, but since he left it had been quite deserted.
He was so narrow-chested himself that he always gazed with admiration at the boy's sturdy frame, and was so taken up in the contemplation of it, that he hardly interested himself in the child's studies. And he was a clever boy too. An old pensioned professor, Márton Kupeczky, gave him lessons every day, and was full of his praises. "There's plenty in him, sir," he used to say.
"I've told you the whole truth." Kupeczky remarked to Gyuri: "I would not mind betting the old gentleman has a tile loose." "A strange man, but a good one," answered Gyuri. "Who knows what memories are attached to that umbrella!" No signification was attached to the above-mentioned incident till years after, when every one had forgotten all about it, Gyuri included.
"Is the old chap mad?" he asked in his lackadaisical way, while the umbrella quietly floated down the stream. "Oh dear no," answered Kupeczky, who, however, was himself surprised at Gregorics's strange behavior. "It's not worth it, domine spectabilis," he added, turning to the old gentleman. "Quick, quick!" gasped Gregorics. Another doubt had arisen in the boatman's mind.
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