With an oval
and ruddy face, nicely trimmed whiskers, soft blue eyes, tolerably
good teeth, he is considered rather a handsome man. But (to use a
vulgar phrase) he is death on night orgies and nigger trials. He may
be seen any day of the week, about twelve o'clock, standing his long
figure in the door of his legal domicile, his hat touching the sill,
looking up and then down the street, as if waiting the arrival of a
victim upon whom to pronounce one of his awful judgments. Felsh is a
different species of person, being a short, stunted man, with a
flat, inexpressive face. He has very much the appearance of a man
who had been clumsily thrown together for any purpose future
circumstances might require. Between these worthies and one Hanz Von
Vickeinsteighner there has long existed a business connection, which
is now being transferred into a fraternity of good fellowship. Hanz
Von Vickeinsteighner keeps a small grocery, a few doors below: that
is, Von, in a place scarcely large enough to turn his fat sides
without coming in contact with the counter, sells onions,
lager-beer, and whiskey; the last-named article is sure to be very
bad, inasmuch as his customers are principally negroes. Von is
considered a very clever fellow, never a very bad citizen, and
always on terms of politeness with a great many squires, and other
members of the legal profession. A perfect picture of the
good-natured Dutchman is Von, as seen standing his square sides in
his doorway, stripped to his sleeves, his red cap tipped aside, a
crooked grin on his broad fat face, and his hands thrust beneath a
white apron into his nether pockets.
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