Botho, who had not seen this place for a long time, read all these placards with real interest, until after he had passed through the "wood," where he found the shade very refreshing for a few minutes, and beyond which he turned into the principal street of a populous suburb that extended as far as Rixdorf. Wagons, two and even three abreast, were passing before him, until suddenly everything came to a standstill and the traffic was blocked. "What are we stopping for?" he asked, but before the coachman could answer, Botho heard cursing and swearing from in front, and saw that the wagons had become wedged. He leaned forward and looked about with interest, true to his fondness for plain people, and apparently the incident would have amused rather than annoyed him, if both the load and the inscription on a wagon that had stopped in front of him had not impressed him painfully. "Broken glass bought and sold, Max Zippel, Rixdorf" was painted in big letters on the high tailboard and a perfect mountain of pieces of glass was piled up in the body of the wagon. "Luck goes with glass" ... And he looked at the load with distaste and felt as if the fragments were cutting all his finger tips. But at last the wagons moved on again and the horse did his best to make up for lost time, and before long the driver stopped before a corner house, with a high roof and a projecting gable and ground floor windows so low that they were almost on a level with the street. An iron bracket projected from the gable, supporting a gilded key placed upright. "What is that?" asked Botho. "The Rollkrug." "Very well. Then we are nearly there. We only have to turn up hill here. I am sorry for the horse, but there is no help for it." The driver gave the horse a cut with the whip and they began to go up a rather steep, hilly street, on one side of which lay the old Jacob's cemetery, which was half closed up because of being over full, while across the street from the cemetery fence rose some high tenement houses. In front of the last house stood some wandering musicians, apparently man and wife, with a horn and a harp. The woman was singing too, but the wind, which was rather strong here, blew the sound away up hill and only when Botho had gone more than ten steps beyond the poor old couple, was he able to distinguish the words and melody. It was the same song that they had sung so happily long ago on the walk to Wilmersdorf, and he sat up and looked out as if the music had called him back to the musicians. They, however, were facing another way and did not see him, but a pretty maid, who was washing windows on the gable side of the house, and who might have thought that the young officer was looking back at her, waved her chamois skin gayly at him and joined vigorously in the chorus: "Ich denke d'ran, ich danke dir, mein Leben; doch du Soldat, Soldat, denkst du daran?"