There were many bottles in the cart which were warranted to cure the ailment, and the famous Morpurgo seemed to be a very sensible man, no buffoon like the other mountebanks. The wife of the baker, Wilhelm Peterssohn, who stood beside him, a woman he knew well, said to her companion that the doctor’s remedies were good, they had quickly cured her godmother of a bad attack of erysipelas.
The words matured the boy’s resolution. Fleeting visions of the sword, the cross-bow, the gingerbread and the nice little brothers once more rose before his mind, but with a powerful effort of the will he thrust them aside, held his breath that he might not smell the alluring odor of the cakes, and hastily approached the cart. Here he unfastened his purse from his belt, poured its contents into his hand, showed the coins to the doctor, who had fixed his black eyes kindly on the odd customer, and asked: “Will this be enough?”
The quack separated the little coins in Adrian’s hand with his forefinger, and answered gravely: “No, my son, but I am always glad to advance the cause of knowledge. There is still a great deal for you to learn at school, and the headache will prevent it. Here are the drops and, as it’s you, I’ll give this prescription for another arcanum into the bargain.”
Adrian hastily wrapped the little vial the quack handed him in the piece of printed paper, received his dearly-bought treasure, and ran home. On the way he was stopped by Captain Allertssohn, who came towards him with the musician Wilhelm.
“Have you seen my Andreas, Master Good-for-nothing?” he asked.
“He was standing listening to the musicians,” replied Adrian, released himself from the captain’s grasp, and vanished among the crowd.
“A nimble lad,” said the fencing-master. “My boy is standing with the musicians again. He has nothing but your art in his mind. He would rather blow on a comb than comb his hair with it, he’s always tooting on every leaf and pipe, makes triangles of broken sword-blades, and not even a kitchen pot is safe from his drumming; in short there’s nothing but singsong in the good-for-nothing fellow’s head; he wants to be a musician or something of the sort.”
“Right, right!” replied Wilhelm eagerly; “he has a fine ear and the best voice in the choir.”