Just at this moment some farmers rode into the yard, probably to look at the cattle which were now about to be sold. Foremost amongst them was a stout red-faced man, whose fat face was made even broader than it was by nature, by the insolent expression that it wore. Men of this species are often to be met with, but what distinguished this man from the rest of his type were the small cunning eyes that peeped out over his fat cheeks, and which seemed to say: It's all thanks to _us_ that you are so well up in the world, _we_ know how to manage. The owner of these eyes was also the owner of the farm of which Hawermann was tenant. He rode right in amongst the crowd, and when he saw his unhappy tenant standing among the other people, he was at once struck with terror lest he should not get his full rent, and the cunning little eyes that knew so well how to manage things for their own advantage said to the insolence that found its home on his mouth and in his expression: Up brother, now's the time to make yourself as big as possible, for it'll cost you nothing! Then forcing his horse closer to Hawermann, he called out in a loud voice so that every one might hear: "Ha ha! These are the clever Mecklenburgers, who think they can teach us how to farm properly! And what have they taught us? They've taught us to drink red wine and cheat at cards, but as for farming!--they can teach us better how to become bankrupt." There was deep silence during this hard speech. Everyone looked first at the speaker, and then at the man whom he had addressed. Hawermann had started on hearing the voice and the words as though some one had plunged a knife into his heart, and now he stood gazing silently on the ground at his feet, not caring to defend himself, but a murmur arose among the people, and a cry of: "ss--ss--for shame! This man drank no red wine, he never cheated at cards--and his farming was most excellent!"--"Who's the great gaby that was talking such nonsense?" asked old Drenkhahn of Liepen, pressing closer with his heavy thorn-stick in his hand.--"It's the man whose labourers go about amongst us begging," cried lame Smidt.--"They hav'n't money to buy a coat for their backs," cried Brandt, the tailor from Jarmen, "and have to wear their Sunday clothes when they are working in the fields."--"Yes," laughed the smith, "it's the man who was so glad to see his labourers wearing such grand cloth coats when they were at work, and they only did it because they couldn't afford to buy smock-frocks, you know!"[2]