Two labourers with bristling sailor beards, stand chewing their tobacco; behind them is an excited lady, craning her neck this way and that to get a glimpse of the Town Hall between their powerful shoulders. She wears a long evening cloak trimmed with brown fur, which she holds together from the inside with both hands. Her face is well covered with a thick brown veil. She shifts her feet about in the melting snow. “Gawd! Kurz bain’t gettin’ it this time, nuther, be he?” says the one labourer to the other. “Naw, ye mutton-head, ’tis certain he bain’t. There’s no more talk o’ him. Th’ votin’s between Hagenström, Buddenbrook, ’n’ Kistenmaker. ’Tis all about they,--now.” “’Tis whether which one o’ th’ three be ahead o’ the others, eh?” “So ’tis; yes, they do say so.” “Then I’m minded they’ll be choosin’ Hagenström.” “Eh, smarty--so they’ll be choosin’ Hagenström? Ye can tell that to yer grandmother!” And therewith he spits his tobacco-juice on the ground close to his own feet, the crowd being too dense to admit of a trajectory. He takes hold of his trousers in both hands and pulls them up higher under his belt, and goes on: “Hagenström, he’s a great pig--he be so fat he can’t breathe through his own nose! If so be it’s all o’er wi’ Kurz then I’m fer Buddenbrook. ’Tis a very shrewd chap.” “So ’tis, so ’tis. But Hagenström, he’s got the money.” “That bain’t the question--’tis no matter o’ riches.” “’n’ then this Buddenbrook--he be so devilish fine wi’ his cuffs ’n’ his silk tie ’n’ his stickin’-out moustaches; hast seen him walk? He hops along like a bird.” “Ye ninny, that bain’t the question, no more’n th’ other.” “They say his sister’ve put away two men a’ready.” The lady in the fur cloak trembles visibly. “Eh, that soart o’ thing--what do we know about it? Likely the Consul he couldn’t help it hisself.” The lady in the veil thinks to herself, “He couldn’t, indeed! Thank God for that,” and presses her hands together, inside her cloak. “’n’ then,” adds the Buddenbrook partisan, “didn’t the Burgomaster his own self stan’ godfeyther to his son? Can’t ye tell somethin’ by that?” “Yes, can’t you indeed?” thinks the lady. “Thank heaven, that did do some good.” She starts. A fresh rumour from the Town Hall, running zigzag through the crowd, has reached her ears. The balloting, it seems, has not been decisive. Eduard Kistenmaker, indeed, has received fewer votes than the other two candidates, and his name has been dropped. But the struggle goes on between Buddenbrook and Hagenström. A sapient citizen remarks that if the voting continues to be even, it will be necessary to appoint five arbitrators.