I was a witness at the trial, but what could I say when they told me I stood in a relation of kinship to my husband and that I could decline to give evidence? I was so scared of the relation of kinship, thinking it might lead to more trouble, that I declined to give evidence, and, poor fellow, he gave me such a look, I'll never forget the expression on his face, not to my dying day I won't. And then when they passed the sentence and they were taking him off, he shouted in the passage, as if he'd gone off his head : 'Up the rebels !' "

"And does Mr. Bretschneider still come here?" asked Schweik.

"He was here a few times," replied the landlady. "He had one or two drinks and asked me who comes here, and he listened to what the customers were saying about a football match. Whenever they see him, they only talk about football matches. And he fairly had the jumps as if any minute he'd go raving mad and start rampaging about. But the whole time he only managed to get hold of one gentleman, and he was a paper hanger."

"It's all a matter of practice," remarked Schweik. "Was the paper hanger a soft-headed sort of fellow?"

"Much the same as my husband," she replied, weeping. "Bretschneider asked him if he'd fire against the Serbs. And he said he didn't know how to shoot. He'd been once, he said, to a shooting gallery and had some shots for a crown. Then we all heard Mr. Bretschneider say as he took out his notebook : 'Hallo, another nice bit of high treason !' And he took the paper hanger away with him and he never came back."

"There's lots of them'll never come back," said Schweik. "Let me have a glass of rum."

Schweik was just having a second glass of rum when Bretschneider came into the taproom. He glanced rapidly round the empty bar and sat down beside Schweik. Then he ordered some beer and waited for Schweik to say something.

Schweik took a newspaper from the rack and glancing at the back page of advertisements, he remarked :

"Look here, that man Cimpera who lives at Straskov is selling a farm with thirteen roods of land belonging to it situated close to school and railway."

Bretschneider drummed nervously with his fingers, and turning to Schweik, he said :

"I'm surprised to find you interested in farming, Mr. Schweik."

"Oh, it's you, is it?" said Schweik, shaking hands with him. "I didn't recognize you at first. I've got a very bad memory for faces. The last time I saw you, as far as I remember, was in the office of the police headquarters. What have you been up to since then? Do you come here often?"

"I came here to-day on your account," said Bretschneider.

"They told me at the police headquarters that you're a dog fancier. I'd like a good ratter or a terrier or something of that sort."

"I can get that for you," replied Schweik. "Do you want a thoroughbred or one from the street?"

"I think," replied Bretschneider, "that I'd rather have a thoroughbred."

"Wouldn't you like a police dog?" asked Schweik. "One of those that gets on the scent in a jiffy and leads you to the scene of the crime? I know a butcher who's got one. He uses it for drawing his cart, but that dog's missed its vocation, as you might say."

"I'd like a terrier," said Bretschneider with composure, "a terrier that doesn't bite."

"Do you want a terrier without teeth, then?" asked Schweik. "I know of one. It belongs to a man who keeps a public house."

"Perhaps I'd rather have a ratter," announced Bretschneider with embarrassment. His knowledge of dogcraft was in its very infancy, and if he hadn't received these particular instructions from the police headquarters, he'd never have bothered his head about dogs at all.

But his instructions were precise, clear and stringent. He was to make himself more closely acquainted with Schweik on the strength of his activities as a dog fancier, for which purpose he was authorized to select assistants and expend sums of money for the purchase of dogs.

"Ratters are of all different sizes," said Schweik. "I know of two little 'uns and three big 'uns.