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The Weavers 103
by two small windows. They are waiting anx
iously for the few pence old Baumert is to bring,
that they may indulge in a long-missed meal.
"
What . . . what . . . what is to become of us
if he don t come home?" laments Mother
Baumert.
"
There is not so much as a handful
o salt in the house not a bite o bread, nor a
bit o wood for the fire."
But old Baumert has not forgotten his family.
He brings them a repast, the first
"
good meal
"
they have had in two years. It is the meat of
their faithful little dog, whom Baumert could not
kill himself because he loved him so. But hunger
knows no choice ; Baumert had his beloved dog
killed, because
"
a nice little bit o meat like that
does you a lot o good."
It did not do old Baumert much good. His
stomach, tortured and abused so long, rebelled,
and the old man had to
"
give up the precious
dog."
And all this wretchedness, all this horror
almost within sight of the palatial home of Dreis-
siger, whose dogs are better fed than his human
slaves.
Man s endurance is almost limitless. Almost,
yet not quite. For there comes a time when the
Baumerts, even like their stomachs, rise in re
bellion, when they hurl themselves, even though
in blind fury, against the pillars of their prison
house. Such a moment comes to the weavers, the
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