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years went by. Brych the stoker, now the proprietor of a locksmith's business, was sitting in the Damohorsky tavern, reading a copy of the People's Journal.

"The liver sausages will be ready in a minute," announced the landlord, emerging from the kitchen. And bless me if it wasn't old Jan Binder, who used to own the merry-go-round. He had grown fat and no longer wore his striped jersey; nevertheless it was he!

"There's no hurry," Mr. Brych answered slowly. "Father Jost hasn't turned up yet. Nor Rejzek either."

"And—how is Mr. Kuzenda getting along?" Jan Binder inquired.

"Oh, well, you know. He's not very grand. He's one of the best men breathing, Mr. Binder."

"He is, indeed," assented the innkeeper. "I don't know Mr. Brych  what about taking him a few liver saugages with my compliments? They're first class, Mr. Brych, and if you'd be so kind "