Martin puts his hands in his pockets and saunters along with his pipe in his mouth in silent self-content. Then he takes hold of Johannes' hand and proceeds to explain the new invention--how the fine flour is caught up by the spiral and conveyed to the suspiral where small pails, running along a belting, raise it through two stories, almost to the roofing, and then empty it into the silken, cylinder-like funnels through the fine network of which it has to pass before becoming fit for use. Listening breathlessly, Johannes drinks in his brother's scant, slowly uttered words, and is surprised how ignorant one grows in the army; for all these things are sealed books to him. Business is flourishing. All the works are in full swing, and the 'prentices have plenty to do with pouring the grain into the mill-hopper and watching the outflow of the flour and the bran. "I have three now," says Martin, pointing to the white-powdered fellows, one of whom is continually running up and down the stairs. "And is David here yet?" asks Johannes. "Why, of course," answers Martin; and makes a face as if the mere idea of David's being no longer at the mill had scared him. "Where has he hidden himself, the old fellow?" Johannes laughingly asks. "David! David!" shouts Martin's lusty voice above all the clatter of the wheels. Then from out the darkness, by the motor machine, which rises Cyclops-like from below the woodwork of the galleries, there emerges a long, lanky figure, dipped in flour--a face shows itself on which the indifference of old age has left nothing to be read--a slightly reddened nose, which almost meets the bristly chin, weak and sulky eyes hidden beneath bushy brows, and a mouth which seems to be continually chewing. "What do you want me for, master?" he asks, planting himself in front of the brothers without removing the clay pipe which hangs loosely between his lips. "Here's Johannes," says Martin, patting the old man's shoulder, while a good-natured smile crosses his countenance. "Don't you know me any more, David?" asks Johannes, holding out his hand in a friendly manner. The old man spits out a stream of brown juice from between his teeth, considers awhile and then mumbles: "Why shouldn't I know you?" "And how are you?" "How should I be?"--Then he begins fumbling about at a sack of flour, tying and untying the string with his bony fingers; then when he has made sure that he is no longer wanted, he withdraws once more into his dark corner. Martin's face beams. "There's a faithful soul for you, Johannes--28 years of service, eh! And always industrious and conscientious." "By the bye, what does he do?" Martin looks confused. "Well--look here--eh--hard to say--position of trust--eh--faithful soul, faithful soul." "Does the faithful soul still occasionally prig something from the flour-sacks?" asks Johannes laughing. Martin shrugs his shoulders impatiently and mutters something about "28 years of service," and closing an eye.