Presently Christian Lutz’s tender arm was around his shoulders. Christian was his favorite classmate and always took his part in his encounters with those vexatious youngsters. While Albert was the quicker with his tongue, Christian was more ready with his fist. “I have heard your father has become a millionaire,” Christian said. “Who’s left him this fortune—your father’s father?” “Not my father’s father,” laughed Albert, the remembrance of the inheritance at once banishing the momentary bitterness from his heart. “My father’s father had no fortune to leave—he was a poor little Jew, with long whiskers as his only belongings.” Though uttered in a soft, jocular voice, and only intended for Christian’s ears, it reached those of Fritz. “Ha—ha!” he tittered. “Did you hear that, boys? Al—ber’s grandfather was a poor little Jew with long whiskers.” “A poor little Jew with long whiskers!” “A poor little Jew with long whiskers!” “A poor little Jew with long whiskers!” This refrain caught up by Long Kunz was accompanied by intermittent beating of the desks with drum-like regularity. In a moment the classroom was in a wild uproar. Whistling, catcalls, imitations of braying asses, of squealing pigs, of crowing cocks, of bleating sheep, of neighing horses filled the air. The boys scampered and jumped and flung inkstands at the blackboard and kicked at the chairs to Fritz’s rhythmic tune of “A poor little Jew with long whiskers!” “Silence!” It was the intimidating voice of Father Scher. The youngsters, frightened by the sudden entrance of the schoolmaster, made a dash for their seats and in their mad rush capsized the benches that came down with resounding crashes. “Order!” shouted the schoolmaster. Father Scher stood at his desk, his right arm raised menacingly, his smooth face crimson with rage, his eyes fairly popping out of their sockets, his saucer-like skull-cap shoved to the back of his shaven head. Ominous silence, terror in every countenance. The priest’s eyes shifted from side to side, taking in the overturned benches, the scattered text-books, the ink-bespattered blackboard. “Who started this?” No answer. The black-robed instructor took a step forward. “Who started this?” Restive shuffling of feet was the only response. “I’ll flay the hide off everyone of you if you don’t tell me at once who started this disorder,” the angered teacher cried. “Al—ber! Al—ber!” Hanse’s voice came from outside. It sounded like a voice in a deep forest. An irrepressible snicker ran through the room. “Who did this—who did this?” Scher was moving along the aisle, searching guilt in every countenance. Reaching Albert he halted and glowered at him. There was still mist in the boy’s eyes and his lips were twitching.