An old man of seventy, white all over, seemed to be their leader. From
time to time he turned round and with a quiet voice urged on those who
lagged behind. 'Now, now, now, lads,' he said, 'no--ow.' They all
walked in silence, in a sort of solemn hush. Only one of them, a little
man with a wrathful air, in a sheepskin coat wide open, and a lambswool
cap pulled right over his eyes, on coming up to the gingerbread man,
suddenly inquired: 'How much is the gingerbread, you tomfool?'

'What sort of gingerbread will it be, worthy sir?' the disconcerted
gingerbread--man responded in a thin, little voice. 'Some are a
farthing--and others cost a halfpenny. Have you a halfpenny in your
purse?'

'But I guess it will sweeten the belly too much,' retorted the
sheepskin, and he retreated from the cart.

'Hurry up, lads, hurry up,' I heard the old man's voice: 'it's far yet
to our night's rest.'

'An uneducated folk,' said the gingerbread-man, with a squint at me,
directly all the crowd had trudged past: 'is such a dainty for the
likes of them?'

And quickly harnessing his horse, he went down to the river, where a
little wooden ferry could be seen. A peasant in a white felt 'schlik'
(the usual headgear in the forest) came out of a low mud hut to meet
him, and ferried him over to the opposite bank. The little cart, with
one wheel creaking from time to time, crawled along the trodden and
deeply rutted road.