"Shame on the good-for-nothing fellow who thinks only about himself!" cried others, and pressed toward the table from which Hans Haberkorn quickly jumped. The place he vacated was again occupied by big John Mertens, who had a large farm on the moor between the Mohawk and the creek, near the church, and by some was considered to be better off than Herkimer himself. In any case one could always be sure that John Mertens would oppose anything that Herkimer and the minister wanted, of whom he observed that they always stuck under the same cover. With this--his favorite expression--he began his discourse, saying: That one might well know what to think of a plan that had been formed without consulting him, John Mertens, who also had a word to say, having ten head of cattle in the pasture more than people whom he would not name; nor would he speak of the sheep and the English hogs which he had first introduced; that every child knew that one could not bring sheep out of a stable when the roof over their heads was afire; nor could one drive fifty hogs away so fast that a lame Indian could not overtake them, not to speak of a dozen who could run. They might think of John Mertens so or so, but he is an honest fellow who does not hide his meaning behind a bush. This was what he wanted to say--The discourse of the big farmer was very confused, and was partly lost in the fat of his double chin; but his adherents, of whom the number was not small, showed their approbation with screams and yells. The opposite party did not fail to pay back such an answer as was due. A dreadful tumult arose, which Nicolas Herkimer's powerful voice could not overcome. It seemed as if the consultation on whose issue the weal or woe of hundreds hung, through the folly and conceit of a couple of dozen would end in empty confusion and disorder. Suddenly there stood beside Nicolas Herkimer a person, the mere sight of whom, as with a blow, brought the boisterous assembly to order, as though a dead man had become alive and wished to address them. The giant-long, skeleton-lean form of Christian Ditmar, whose bony hands were stretched apart as if in conjuration, while, from under the thick fur cap the gray hair in disordered strands was whipped by the wind about his ghost-like face, was awe-inspiring. Then he raised his voice, which now shrieked frantically, and then again rung out like thunder, and thus spoke: