Owing to his old love of mechanics, he had collected a quantity of tools of all sorts, and whenever Anton left the house, he began such a sawing, boring, planing, and rasping, that even the deaf old artillery officer, who was quartered in the neighboring house, was under the impression that a carpenter had settled near him, and sent a broken bedstead to be repaired.

As Karl was still obliged to spare his right hand, he used one tool after the other with the left, and was as pleased as a child with the progress he made.

And when the surgeon forbade such exertions for a week to come, Karl began to write with his left hand, and daily exhibited to Anton samples of his skill.
"Practice is all that is wanted," said he; "man has to discover what he can do.

As for that, writing with the hands at all is merely a habit; if one had no hands, one would write with one's feet; and I even believe that they are not essential, and that it could be managed with the head." "You are a foolish fellow," laughed Anton.
"I do assure you," continued Karl, "that with a long reed held in the mouth, with two threads fastened to the ears to lessen the shaking, one might get on very tolerably.

There is the setting of your keyhole come off; we'll glue that on in no time." "I wonder that it does not stick of itself," said Anton, "for a most horrible smell of glue comes from your room.