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the horses, Otto,’ he said and went.
    ‘You’re too hard, Father,’ whispered Otto.
    ‘What?’ shouted his father, and remained standing (the prisoner continuing to shout). ‘What?! As if he wasn’t hard on me!’ He looked at his son reproachfully. ‘Don’t you think it doesn’t hurt me? Let’s feed the animals, Otto.’
§ X
    He had walked up the cellar steps like a very old man, but he stepped into the yard with a firm tread. ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered, ‘and may God help us all!’ In what was almost his old domineering voice he called to the women at the window: ‘Haven’t you anything to do? Get on with your work.’
    The faces vanished at once, and Hackendahl entered the stables. ‘Everything in order, Rabause?’
    ‘Everything in order here.’ The word ‘here’ was the sole allusion Rabause dared to make to recent events.
    There was much to do in the hour that followed – hasty, silent work. By half past six the horses had to be ready for the day trips.
    But still, Otto repeatedly found a moment to go through the stable door and listen for the cellar. He heard nothing, but that didn’t mean that his brother had been brought to heel. That possibility seemed unlikely – almost as unlikely as that of his father giving way.
Sighing heavily, Otto went back to work again. He noticed that the stableman, Rabause, looked out of the stable door more often than usual – only his father behaved as if nothing had happened.
    Only when the night cabs started coming in did old Hackendahl leave the stables. As usual he spoke to every driver, examined the taxi-meters, reckoned up the moneys and entered them in his book. Business had been unusually good that night; the cabs had hardly waited on their stands at all. With a good deal of money in his possession Hackendahl revived. Not everything was hopeless. Business was good!
    Shouting to Rabause that the night horses were to get an extra ration of oats, he turned to one of the drivers. ‘And how did you get on, Willem?’
    ‘There was a lot happening. Folks still all hot and bothered about that Archduke’s murder. Three times I had to drive to Scherl’s where the telegrams are posted up. They’ve got the murderer under lock and key, Herr Hackendahl. He’s a student, I forget his name. He swallowed poison on the spot but spewed it up again.’
    ‘A student, eh? And people stay up all night on account of him? He wants his behind thrashing till it bleeds, that’s what he deserves. Hanging’s too quick, he ought to suffer a bit first … But there’s no discipline left in the world.’
    The old driver looked up from the blue cushion he was brushing. ‘D’you think so, Herr Hackendahl? I think there’s too much discipline, too much spit an’ polish. A man’s not a machine, he’s a living creature with feelings …’
    But old Willem had chosen the wrong moment, for just then his colleague Piepgras drove into the yard. Though it was a mild summer morning he had the hood up and the apron across, just as if it were raining cats and dogs. And it seemed that there was a reason.
    ‘Yes, Herr Hackendahl,’ said Piepgras, as he climbed down from his box, puffing and blowing and pushing from his wrinkled brow the top hat bearing his number. ‘Will you stand still, Ottilie? The stupid beast won’t ever wait for its fodder. Well, Herr Hackendahl, you tell me what was I to do! One o’clock at night they both got in my cab at Alten Kuhstall and he said go past the Lehrter into the Tiergarten and then on and on till I knock. I didn’t notice he’d had one
over the eight. Well, knock he didn’t, so on I went, on and on, and every now and then I’d ask is it far enough now? But no reply, nothing, and when I do stop I see they’re both dossing. Talk about sleep! Shaking’s no good and shouting’s no good, just boozy drivel from the chap. Not a word about his address or suchlike.’
    ‘You’re always doing this,’ said Hackendahl, annoyed. ‘Wake them