“Has anyone seen young Mocs these days?”
Sven Arped put the question to his circle, having sucked in, with a hiss, the foam left by a BOCK on his drooping moustachios and opulent beard. “Upon my soul, the lad has become a living conundrum — a walking riddle! In place of a how-do, does he now meet you, he buttonholes you to inquire, with dry lips: harkee, have ever you heard tell of a Bianca Josefa — a Bianca Josefa with an S? (An S, mark you!) Who is she? Where is she to be found? . . . this Bianca Josefa and her appendage! — Boys, what madness is this? For no farther does the fellow get. He stops short — like a winged bird — and will say no more.”
But when he walked the next night at his young friend’s side, now in the inky shadow of the houses, now in the river of light which a full mo
