But his bad humor was not contagious, at least not for Mr. Matthew Fottner. The latter was a welcome guest during his vacation at all the taverns for ten miles around; and when he got out of money and was far from home, he remembered that a parsonage stands near every church, and would go in and ask for a _viaticum_ (traveling money), which was due him as _studiosus litterarum_, a devotee of letters and fine arts. And in so doing he would now and then encounter a young vicar, neophyte, or undergraduate, who would exchange reminiscences of Freising with him, and who, after the fifth pint of beer, would join in the fine songs: "_Vom hoh'n Olymp herab ward uns die Freude_" and "_Brüderchen, er-her-go bi-ba-hamus._" When he again entered the seat of culture in October, his head was considerably thicker, his bass appreciably deeper, but otherwise everything was as before. In the meantime he had not learned to love Caius Julius Cæsar, nor to appreciate the Greek verbs; his teacher was as disagreeable as before, and the result at the close of the year was that Matt must once more forego promotion. At the same time he was notified that he had passed the age limit and might not come back again. Now wouldn't that beat all? So they were all out in the cold: old Fottner who had been so proud, the tavern-keeper who had already been joyfully looking forward to Matt's first mass, and the Catholic Church, which was losing such a pillar. But most of all the Upper-Bridge Farmer of Eynhofen, whose whole deal with our Lord God was off. By all the devils, if that wasn't enough to madden a man and make him curse! For seven long years he had had to pay over the nail, do nothing but pay, and no small sum, either; you can believe that. A mile away you could tell the quality of the fodder Matt had been standing in. And everything was in vain; on the heavenly record of the Bridge Farmer that lightning-rod oath was still written down, but there wasn't an ink-spot on the credit side. For after all, nobody could suppose that our Lord God would let Matt's scholarly training be set down as anything to the good. Such a miserable, outrageous piece of rascality surely had never existed before in the history of the world! This time the rage of the Bridge Farmer was directed not merely against the teachers at Freising; the priest had enlightened him as to the fact that Matt was deficient in everything except tarot playing and beer-drinking. The ragamuffin, the good-for-nothing! Now he was running around Eynhofen with glasses on his nose and a belly like an alderman. He looked like a regular Vicar, sure enough, who was going to begin reading mass the next day. And all the time he was nothing, absolutely nothing. The only person who remained calm under these blows of fate was the quondam _stud. lit._ Matthew Fottner. If he had studied longer and more, I should be fain to think he had learned this calm of soul from the seven wise men.