deference due to an elder. Ingo was a born gentleman and in his fiercest
transports of glee never forgot his manners! I would make some purposely
ludicrous shot at the sense, and he would double up with innocent mirth.
His clear laughter would ring out, and his mother, pacing a digestive
stroll on the highway below us, would look up crying in the German way,
"_Gott! wie er freut sich_!" The progress of our reading was held up by
these interludes, but I could never resist the temptation to start Ingo
explaining.

Ingo having made me free of his dearest book, it was only fair to
reciprocate. So one day Lloyd and I bicycled down to Freiburg, and
there, at a heavenly "bookhandler's," I found a copy of 'Treasure
Island' in German. Then there was revelry in the balcony! I read the
tale aloud, and I wish R.L.S. might have seen the shining of Ingo's
eyes! Alas, the vividness of the story interfered with the little lad's
sleep, and his mother was a good deal disturbed about this violent yarn
we were reading together. How close he used to sit beside me as we read
of the dark doings at the _Admiral Benbow_: and how his face would fall
when, clear and hollow from the sounding-board of the hills, came the
quick _clop, clop_ of the mail-man's horses.

I don't know anything that has ever gone deeper in my memory than those
hours spent with Ingo. I have a little snapshot of him I took the misty,
sorrowful morning when I bicycled away to Basel and left the Gasthaus
zur Krone in its mountain valley. The blessed little lad stands up erect
and stiff in the formal German way, and I can see his blue eyes alight
with friendliness, and a little bit unhappy because his eccentric
American comrade was gomg away and there would be no more afternoons
with _Till Eulenspiegel_ on the balcony. I wonder if he thinks of me as
often as I do of him? He gave me a glimpse into the innocent heaven of a