visitor wide-awake enough, hurriedly opening every drawer and
peering under the twine and needles, lifting every bale of leather,
shaking out the very boots awaiting repair.

When the dweller in Number Thirteen returned, the soldier was
asleep, and had to be shaken before he would open his eyes.

"Will you eat before you go to bed?" asked the bootmaker not
unkindly.

"I ate as I came along the street," was the reply. "No, I will go
to bed. What time is it?"

"It is only seven o'clock--but no matter."

"No, it is no matter. To-morrow I must be astir by five."

"Good," said the shoemaker. "But you will get your money's worth.
The bed is a good one. It is my son's. He is away, and I am alone
in the house."

He led the way upstairs as he spoke, going heavily one step at a
time, so that the whole house seemed to shake beneath his tread.
The room was that attic in the roof which has a dormer window
overhanging the linden tree. It was small and not too clean; for
Konigsberg was once a Polish city, and is not far from the Russian
frontier.

The soldier hardly noticed his surroundings, but sat down instantly,
with the abandonment of a shepherd's dog at the day's end.