The first Saturday in July was a day of excitement for the turnpike-keeper, Friedrich August Vogt. He was rather annoyed with himself for losing his usual calm. Why? because his son--his only son--was coming home for the first time? Really, that was not such an event as to put him beside himself in this way! And then next he blamed himself for having thought it unbefitting an old soldier, and too soft-hearted altogether, to go and fetch his son from the station. He could not remain in the house, so he went to a spot on the highway whence he could watch the railway. He could see the train coming in, and the clouds of white smoke from the engine rising up from behind the station; then he heard the whistle--but still nothing was to be seen of the two holiday-makers. Could Franz be stopping to have a glass of beer? No; now the two men could be seen emerging from the village on to the broad high-road, their helmets and uniform buttons glistening in the sun--it must be they! The turnpike-keeper drew back a little, so that he was out of sight. Why should the boy know that he had been staring the eyes out of his head in order to catch the first glimpse of him? When Vogt and Klitzing arrived at the house he looked out of the window as if quite by chance. "Ah, here you are!" and with a hearty grip of the hand he bade them both welcome. But it was no use fighting against it, he could not take his eyes off his son. What a well set-up, vigorous young fellow his Franz had grown! Yet he was still the same good honest lad; that was written in his face. And Franz's friend, with his frank open countenance, inspired confidence at once. He looked, to be sure, as if he had never in his life had enough to eat. He must be properly fed up for once. While he was on leave, at any rate, he should not want for anything. The two gunners settled down very quickly, and nothing could prevent Franz from going round the fields the very first evening while his father milked and fed the cows. He had almost hoped to find something or other left neglected because he had not been there when it was put in hand. But no, his father had allowed nothing to go wrong anywhere. And now in the company of the two young soldiers the old turnpike-keeper became quite a different creature. He realised suddenly that the quiet, sluggish peasant's blood had not quite replaced in him the old, quick-flowing blood of the soldier. He listened, fascinated, to the tales told by the two gunners about their soldier's life. How things had changed since his time! He could never hear enough about it all. Then Franz came to tell of his reflections during the gun-practice: how through the fence he had seen the infantry battalion tormented with drill for hours at a time; how the dried-up looking major had foamed with fury; and how the poor devil of a private had been struck down bodily and mentally in the middle of it all.