It was November, and winter had set
in with unusual severity. On a dark and bitterly cold afternoon, old
Stubbe, who had been agent in the Eynhardts' house for twenty years,
entered Wilhelm's room.
"What is the news, Father Stubbe?" cried Wilhelm, as he came in.
"No good news, Herr Doctor. Wander the locksmith--you know the man
who rents the second floor of the house in our court--has been
turned out by the police. It seems he's a very dangerous customer; I
must say I have never noticed it. He was always very decent; the
children were a bother, certainly--always running about the court
and getting between your feet. Well, we all have our faults; and
then, too, he didn't pay his rent in October."
Wilhelm, who was well acquainted with Father Stubbe's flow of
language, and did not greatly admire it, interrupted him at this
point.
"Well, and what is the matter?"
"What's the matter, Herr Doctor? Why, the wife is there now with the
five children, and there's no earning anything, and yesterday she
took away a cupboard to turn it into money somewhere--not that she
can have got much for it, it was all tumbling to pieces. The rest of
the furniture will take legs to itself soon, I dare say, for six
mouths must be fed, and where is food to come from? There will be no
removal expenses anyhow, for there will soon be nothing but the bare
walls.
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