fierce gust of spray, which blew like an icy shower-bath, into the
faces of the travellers.

"_Ach, welch verfluchtes Wetter!_" cried Mr. Hahn fretfully, wiping
off the streaming perspiration. "I'll be blasted if you catch me going
to the Tyrol again for the sake of being fashionable!"

"But the scenery, father, the scenery!" exclaimed Fritz, pointing
toward a great, sun-flushed peak, which rose in majestic isolation
toward the north.

"The scenery--bah!" growled the senior Hahn. "For scenery, recommend
me to Saxon Switzerland, where you may sit in an easy cushioned
carriage without blistering your legs, as I have been doing to-day in
this blasted saddle."

"Father, you are too fat," remarked the son, with a mischievous
chuckle.

"And you promise fair to tread in my footsteps, son," retorted the
elder, relaxing somewhat in his ill-humor.

This allusion to Mr. Fritz's prospective corpulence was not well
received by the latter. He gave his horse a smart cut of the whip,
which made the jaded animal start off at a sort of pathetic mazurka
gait up the side of the mountain.

Mr. Julius Hahn was a person of no small consequence in Berlin. He was
the proprietor of the "Haute Noblesse" Concert garden, a highly
respectable place of amusement, which enjoyed the especial patronage