boy might without great risk leap from the eaves below the dormer
window into the topmost branches of the linden, which here grows
strong and tough, as it surely should do in the fatherland.

A young soldier, seeking lodgings, who happened to knock at the door
of Number Thirteen less than thirty hours after the arrival of
Napoleon at Dantzig, looked upward through the shady boughs, and
noted their growth with the light of interest in his eye. It would
almost seem that the house had been described to him as that one in
the Neuer Markt against which the lindens grew. For he had walked
all round the square between the trees and houses before knocking at
this door, which bore no number then, as it does to-day.

His tired horse had followed him meditatively, and now stood with
drooping head in the shade. The man himself wore a dark uniform,
white with dust. His hair was dusty and rather lank. He was not a
very tidy soldier.

He stood looking at the sign which swung from the doorpost, a relic
of the Polish days. It bore the painted semblance of a boot. For
in Poland--a frontier country, as in frontier cities where many
tongues are heard--it is the custom to paint a picture rather than
write a word. So that every house bears the sign of its inmate's
craft, legible alike to Lithuanian or Ruthenian, Swede or Cossack of
the Don.

He knocked again, and at last the door was opened by a thickly-built
man, who looked, not at his face, but at his boots. As these wanted
no repair he half closed the door again and looked at the newcomer's
face.