Bonaparte drained it eagerly.
"How do you feel now?" asked the German, looking at him with much sympathy.
"A little, slightly, better."
The German went out to pick up the battered chimneypot which had fallen
before the door.
"I am sorry you got the fright. The birds are bad things till you know
them," he said sympathetically, as he put the hat down.
"My friend," said Bonaparte, holding out his hand, "I forgive you; do not
be disturbed. Whatever the consequences, I forgive you. I know, I
believe, it was with no ill-intent that you allowed me to go out. Give me
your hand. I have no ill-feeling; none!"
"You are very kind," said the German, taking the extended hand, and feeling
suddenly convinced that he was receiving magnanimous forgiveness for some
great injury, "you are very kind."
"Don't mention it," said Bonaparte.
He knocked out the crown of his caved-in old hat, placed it on the table
before him, leaned his elbows on the table and his face in his hands, and
contemplated it.
"Ah, my old friend," he thus apostrophized the hat, "you have served me
long, you have served me faithfully, but the last day has come. Never more
shall you be borne upon the head of your master. Never more shall you
protect his brow from the burning rays of summer or the cutting winds of
winter. Henceforth bare-headed must your master go.
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