Krakow was a boor, so the dispute took on a personal colour, and led to intense hate, at least on Krakow's side, because Puetz was phlegmatic and always took a slightly humorous view of the affair. But Krakow had openly declared and sworn that if any member or servant of the Puetz family set foot on his place, he would sick his dogs on him. Well, those were my terms. And the boy agreed to them. Whether willingly or unwillingly, I did not enquire. I made up my mind to take the first steps myself toward an understanding with Krakow, although I had every reason to believe his threat applied to me, too. I had had several tilts with him in the county council. But I--look at me--I don't mean to boast--I can fell a bull with this fist of mine. So a few curs don't need to make me take to my heels. Well, then. CHAPTER II So I let three days pass, gentlemen, to sleep on the matter--then my two coach-horses into the harness--my yellow trap--and heigho for Krakowitz. Beautiful bit of property, no denying that. Somewhat run down, but full of possibilities. Lots of black fallow--might do for winter kale or something of the sort. The wheat so-so. The cattle splendid. The courtyard! Well, you know, a courtyard is like the human heart. Once you have learned to see into it, you cannot be bamboozled so easily. There are neglected hearts, but you can see gold nuggets peeping out through the dirt. Then there are hearts all done up and polished and smartened, hearts fed up, you might say, on arsenic. They glitter and glisten, and all you can say when you look at them is "By Jingo!" Yet they are rotten and mouldy. There are hearts in the ascending and descending scale, hearts of which the better is more hopeless than the much, much worse, because the worse improves while the other gradually declines. Well, and so on. The Krakowitz yard was a little of all this. Bright, clean barns, miserable wagons, fine drains for the stables, but the stalls badly placed. An air of whimsicality about the whole place, with a touch of stinginess or lack of means. From appearances it is difficult to distinguish between the two. The manor-house--two stories, red brick faced with yellow stones and overgrown with ivy. In a word, not bad, something unstudied about it--well, you know what I mean. "Is the Baron at home?" "Yes. What name shall I give?" "Hanckel, Baron Hanckel--Ilgenstein." "Step in, sir." So I walked in--everything old--old furniture, old pictures--worm-eaten, but cosy. I heard some one begin to curse and swear in the adjoining room. "The dirty blackguard--the impudence of him--always _was_ a friend of that Puetz, the cur!" "Pleasant reception," I thought. Women's voices joined in. "Papa, papa!" "Good Lord! All right! All right!"