The Fortune Hunter [13]
Ganser, a rich brewer of the upper East Side. He had placed himself deliberately beside her, and he at once began advances. She showed at a glance that she was a silly, vain girl. Her face was fat and dull; she had thin, stringy hair. She was flabby and, in the lazy life to which the Gansers' wealth and the silly customs of prosperous people condemned her, was already beginning to expand in the places where she could least afford it.
He made amorous eyes at her. He laughed enthusiastically at her foolish speeches. He addressed his pompous platitudes exclusively to her. Within an hour he pressed her hand under the table and sighed dramatically. When she looked at him he started and rolled his great eyes dreamily away. Never before had she received attentions that were not of the frankest and crudest practical nature. She was all in a flutter at having thus unexpectedly come upon appreciation of the beauties and merits her mirror told her she possessed. When Mrs. Schoenberg, her aunt, rose to go, she gave Feuerstein a chance to say in a low aside: ``My queen! To-morrow at eleven--at Bloomingdale's.'' Her blush and smile told him she would be there.
All left except Feuerstein and a youth he had been watching out of the corner of his eyes--young Dippel, son of the rich drug-store man. Feuerstein saw that Dippel was on the verge of collapse from too much drink. As he still had his eighty-five cents, he pressed Dippel to drink and, by paying, induced him to add four glasses of beer to his already top-heavy burden.
``Mus' go home,'' said Dippel at last, rising abruptly.
Feuerstein walked with him, taking his arm to steady him. ``Let's have one more,'' he said, drawing him into a saloon, gently pushing him to a seat at a table and ordering whisky. After the third large drink, Dippel became helpless and maudlin and began to overflow with generous sentiments. ``I love you, Finkelstern, ol' man,'' he declared tearfully. ``They say you're a dead beat, but wha' d'I care ?''
``Finkelstern,'' affecting drunkenness, shed tears on Dippel's shoulder, denied that he was a ``beat'' and swore that he loved Dippel like a brother. ``You're my frien','' he said. ``I know you'd trust me to any amount.''
Dippel took from his trousers pocket a roll of bills several inches thick. Feuerstein thrilled and his eyes grew eloquent as he noted tens and twenties and at least one fifty. Slowly, and with exaggerated care, Dippel drew off a ten. ``There y'are, ol' dead beat,'' he said. ``I'll stake you a ten. Lots more where that came from--soda-fountain counter's reg'lar gol' mine.''
In taking off the ten, he dropped a twenty. It fluttered to the floor and the soldier of fortune, the scorner of toil and toilers, slid his foot over it as swiftly and naturally as a true aristocrat always covers an opportunity to get something somebody else has earned. He put the ten in his pocket, when Dippel's eyes closed he stooped and retrieved the twenty with stealth--and skill. When the twenty was hidden, and the small but typical operation in high finance was complete, he shook Dippel. ``I say, old man,'' he said, ``hadn't you better let me keep your money for you? I'm afraid you'll lose it.''
Dippel slowly unclosed one eye and gave him a look of glassy cunning. He again drew the roll from his pocket, and, clasping it tightly in his fist, waved it under Feuerstein's nose. As he did it, he vented a drunken chuckle. ``Soda fountain's gol' mine, Fishenspiel,'' he said thickly. ``No, you don't! I can watch my own roll.'' He winked and chuckled.
``Sorry to disappoint you, Fishy,'' he went on, with a leer. Then he took off another ten and handed it to Feuerstein. ``Good fel', Fishy,'' he mumbled, ``'f y' are a dead beat.''
Feuerstein added the ten to the thirty and ordered more whisky. Dippel tried to doze, but he would not permit it. ``He mustn't sleep any of it off,'' he thought.
When the whisky came Dippel shook himself together and started up. ``G'-night,'' he said, trying to stand, look and talk
He made amorous eyes at her. He laughed enthusiastically at her foolish speeches. He addressed his pompous platitudes exclusively to her. Within an hour he pressed her hand under the table and sighed dramatically. When she looked at him he started and rolled his great eyes dreamily away. Never before had she received attentions that were not of the frankest and crudest practical nature. She was all in a flutter at having thus unexpectedly come upon appreciation of the beauties and merits her mirror told her she possessed. When Mrs. Schoenberg, her aunt, rose to go, she gave Feuerstein a chance to say in a low aside: ``My queen! To-morrow at eleven--at Bloomingdale's.'' Her blush and smile told him she would be there.
All left except Feuerstein and a youth he had been watching out of the corner of his eyes--young Dippel, son of the rich drug-store man. Feuerstein saw that Dippel was on the verge of collapse from too much drink. As he still had his eighty-five cents, he pressed Dippel to drink and, by paying, induced him to add four glasses of beer to his already top-heavy burden.
``Mus' go home,'' said Dippel at last, rising abruptly.
Feuerstein walked with him, taking his arm to steady him. ``Let's have one more,'' he said, drawing him into a saloon, gently pushing him to a seat at a table and ordering whisky. After the third large drink, Dippel became helpless and maudlin and began to overflow with generous sentiments. ``I love you, Finkelstern, ol' man,'' he declared tearfully. ``They say you're a dead beat, but wha' d'I care ?''
``Finkelstern,'' affecting drunkenness, shed tears on Dippel's shoulder, denied that he was a ``beat'' and swore that he loved Dippel like a brother. ``You're my frien','' he said. ``I know you'd trust me to any amount.''
Dippel took from his trousers pocket a roll of bills several inches thick. Feuerstein thrilled and his eyes grew eloquent as he noted tens and twenties and at least one fifty. Slowly, and with exaggerated care, Dippel drew off a ten. ``There y'are, ol' dead beat,'' he said. ``I'll stake you a ten. Lots more where that came from--soda-fountain counter's reg'lar gol' mine.''
In taking off the ten, he dropped a twenty. It fluttered to the floor and the soldier of fortune, the scorner of toil and toilers, slid his foot over it as swiftly and naturally as a true aristocrat always covers an opportunity to get something somebody else has earned. He put the ten in his pocket, when Dippel's eyes closed he stooped and retrieved the twenty with stealth--and skill. When the twenty was hidden, and the small but typical operation in high finance was complete, he shook Dippel. ``I say, old man,'' he said, ``hadn't you better let me keep your money for you? I'm afraid you'll lose it.''
Dippel slowly unclosed one eye and gave him a look of glassy cunning. He again drew the roll from his pocket, and, clasping it tightly in his fist, waved it under Feuerstein's nose. As he did it, he vented a drunken chuckle. ``Soda fountain's gol' mine, Fishenspiel,'' he said thickly. ``No, you don't! I can watch my own roll.'' He winked and chuckled.
``Sorry to disappoint you, Fishy,'' he went on, with a leer. Then he took off another ten and handed it to Feuerstein. ``Good fel', Fishy,'' he mumbled, ``'f y' are a dead beat.''
Feuerstein added the ten to the thirty and ordered more whisky. Dippel tried to doze, but he would not permit it. ``He mustn't sleep any of it off,'' he thought.
When the whisky came Dippel shook himself together and started up. ``G'-night,'' he said, trying to stand, look and talk