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Updated: May 3, 2025
Everything was in order, and he, the village-elder, would see to it that it was kept so. Besides, old Wackwitz was an honest, stupid sort of fellow; he was quite to be trusted. For the funeral, of course, everything had been arranged according to the dead man's desire. But the old sergeant was not buried without having the three salutes fired over his grave.
The lowing of the cows aroused him from his dismal brooding. He had sent away old Wackwitz after rewarding him liberally: for he meant to do as his father had done, and manage all the work himself. He gave the beasts their food, which had already been prepared for them. There was not a scrap of bread nor of butter in the house for himself.
The dusty windows looked strange and dead; and the closed door over the well-worn threshold seemed to warn him off. The little side-gate into the yard was not locked. Franz Vogt entered by it upon his paternal inheritance. Just then old Wackwitz came hobbling with his wooden leg across the yard, carrying a pot of steamed potatoes. "Nobody has any business here!" he cried out to the intruder.
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