I hear them shouting "Jew!" and I go to the window and see my little boy in the front rank of the bandits, screaming, fighting with clenched¹ fists and without his cap.

 

I sit down quietly to my work again, certain that he will appear before long and ease his heart.

 

And he comes directly after.

 

He stands still, as is his way, by my side and says nothing. I steal a glance at him: he is greatly excited and proud and glad, like one who has fearlessly done his duty.

 

"What fun you've been having down there!"

 

"Oh," he says, modestly, "it was only a Jew boy whom we were licking."

 

I jump up so quickly that I upset my chair:

 

"A Jew boy? Were you licking him? What had he done?"

 

"Nothing. . . ."

 

His voice is not very certain, for I look so queer.

 

And that is only the beginning. For now I snatch my hat and run out of the door as fast as I can and shout:

 

"Come . . . come . . . we must find him and beg his pardon!"

 

My little boy hurries after me. He does not understand a word of it, but he is terribly in earnest. We look in the courtyard, we shout and call. We rush into the street and round the corner, so eager are we to come up with him. Breathlessly, we ask three passers-by if they have not seen a poor, ill-used Jew boy.

 

All in vain: the Jew boy and all his persecutors are blown away into space.

 

So we go and sit up in my room again, the laboratory where our soul is crystallized out of the big events of our little life. My forehead is wrinkled and I drum disconsolately² with my fingers on the table. The boy has both his hands in his pockets and does not take his eyes from my face.

 

"Well," I say, decidedly, "there is nothing more to be done. I hope you will meet that Jew boy one day, so that you can give him your hand and ask him to forgive you. You must tell him that you did that only because you were stupid. But if, another time, anyone does him any harm, I hope you will help him and lick the other one as long as you can stir a limb."

 

I can see by my little boy's face that he is ready to do what I wish. For he is still a mercenary, who does not ask under which flag, so long as there is a battle and booty to follow. It is my duty to train him to be a brave recruit, who will defend his fair mother-land, and so I continue:

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