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A soldier in a red coat opened the door to him. "Is the captain at home?" asked the turnpike-keeper. "Sorry, but he's not," answered the lad. "Can you tell me where I can find him?" "That would be no good. The captain's gone away to a court-martial." The turnpike-keeper started violently. "Is the court-martial on Bombardier Vogt?" he asked.
And now in the company of the two young soldiers the old turnpike-keeper became quite a different creature. He realised suddenly that the quiet, sluggish peasant's blood had not quite replaced in him the old, quick-flowing blood of the soldier. He listened, fascinated, to the tales told by the two gunners about their soldier's life. How things had changed since his time!
But the son was more discriminating than the father, even though the punishment affected himself. "You are not in earnest, father," he remonstrated; "I know I was in fault. But the punishment is too hard, even so; and I can appeal." The turnpike-keeper laughed softly. "Yes, you can be a fool," he said, "and get yourself into a worse mess!
The magistrate of the district was taking charge of the proceedings. Beside him sat the schoolmaster of the church schools, and the inspector of the manor. A few peasants and a workman from the fire-clay factory, his clothes covered with lime, were standing about. The schoolmaster announced the name: "Vogt, Friedrich August, retired turnpike-keeper, registered number 41."
On his way home the same peasant heard the cows mooing incessantly in a troubled manner, and he related all this at the ale-house in the evening. Then the villagers put their heads together. Possibly the old turnpike-keeper was really ill. The more curious among the neighbours left the warm parlour of the inn, and tramped along the high-road in the biting east wind.
After endless questions the turnpike-keeper had managed to find his way to the court-house of the army-corps. He had been wandering through street after street; the busy traffic of the capital had made his head spin, and he was tired to death with this unwonted tramping over hard stone pavements. He had arrived before the court-room door just as the witnesses were leaving.
Years ago, when toll was still levied on the highway, it had been the gate-keeper's cottage; and Franz Vogt's father, the last turnpike-keeper, had bought it from the State when the toll was abolished. Nearly twenty years had gone by since the white-painted barrier had been let down at night for the last time, but the little house remained the same in appearance.
But perhaps, dear father, you will not condemn me altogether; perhaps you will be able to imagine what my feelings must have been. For your sake alone I ought to have been able to control myself, and I beg you to forgive me for not having done so." The turnpike-keeper jumped up suddenly from his chair. He flung the letter violently down on the table and struck it with his fist.
The farm labourer held out a conservative voting-paper, and said: "You are nearly too late, Herr Vogt. Here is your vote." But the turnpike-keeper turned away with a lowering look. He stretched out his hand to the other man and demanded a voting-paper, with which the stonemason hastened to furnish him; and Friedrich August Vogt stumped heavily up the steps into the polling-station.
The face of the turnpike-keeper lighted up as he listened to the captain's words. He breathed again. Thank God! things could not go so badly with the boy. A few weeks under arrest and the affair would be at an end. But Wegstetten proceeded to tell him of the continued obstinacy of his son, and at last was forced to impart to the old man the severe sentence that had been passed.
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