This, the exordium of his sermon, was followed by way of hymn, by the arrival of the town fool of Kuhschnappel, who brought in a great sheet of paper containing an invitation to the shooting match on St. Andrew's Day, the 30th of November. Every one of us must, I am sure, have gathered from what has already been said that the only money left in the house was the queue-ducat. At the same time, Siebenkæs couldn't leave the shooting-club, without thereby granting to himself a certificate of poverty, a _testimonium paupertatis_, in the face of the whole town. And really a shooting-ticket for this match was almost as good as mining shares or East India stock to a man who was as good a shot as Siebenkæs. It would also give him an opportunity of doing that public honour to his wife which she, as a senate clerk's daughter from Augspurg, had a right to expect. Unfortunately, however, the grave man of folly couldn't be got to give change for the curious queue-ducat, particularly as Siebenkæs aroused his suspicions with respect to it himself, by saying. "This is a very good tail or queue-ducat, I assure you. I don't wear a tail myself," he added, "but that's no reason why a ducat shouldn't, if the King of Prussia chooses to immortalise his own by having it stamped upon it. Wife, would you get our landlord, the hairdresser, to come up; nobody can know better than he whether it's a queue-ducat or not, seeing he has queues (not upon ducats) in his hands every day." The pickle-herring of Kuhschnappel didn't vouchsafe the ghost of a smile at this. The hairdresser came, and declared it to be a queue, and civilly took it away himself to get it changed. Hairdressers can run; in five minutes he brought the change for the ducat.