The Fortune Hunter [30]
stopped as if he had been shot; he shivered; he slowly, and with a look of fascinated horror, turned to see whose hand had arrested him.
He was looking into the laughing face of a man who was obviously a detective.
``You don't seem glad to see me, old boy,'' said the detective with contemptuous familiarity.
``I don't know you, sir.'' Feuerstein made a miserable attempt at haughtiness.
``Of course you don't. But I know YOU--all about you. Come in here and let's sit down a minute.''
They went into a saloon and the detective ordered two glasses of beer. ``Now listen to me, young fellow,'' he said.
``You're played out in this town. You've got to get a move on you, see? We've been looking you up, and you're wanted for bigamy. But if you clear out, you won't be followed. You've got to leave today, understand? If you're here to-morrow morning, up the road you go.'' The detective winked and waggled his thumb meaningly in a northerly direction.
Feuerstein was utterly crushed. He gulped down the beer and sat wiping the sweat from his face. ``I have done nothing,'' he protested in tragic tones. ``Why am I persecuted--I, poor, friendless, helpless?''
``Pity about you,'' said the detective.
``You'd better go west and start again. Why not try honest work? It's not so bad, they say, once you get broke in.'' He rose and shook hands with Feuerstein. ``So long,'' he said. ``Good luck! Don't forget!'' And again he winked and waggled his thumb in the direction of the penitentiary.
Feuerstein went to his lodgings, put on all the clothes he could wear without danger of attracting his landlady's attention, filled his pockets and the crown of his hat with small articles, and fled to Hoboken.
IX
AN IDYL OF PLAIN PEOPLE
Hilda had not spent her nineteen years in the glare of the Spartan publicity in which the masses live without establishing a character. Just as she knew all the good points and bad in all the people of that community, so they knew all hers, and therefore knew what it was possible for her to do and what impossible. And if a baseless lie is swift of foot where everybody minutely scrutinizes everybody else, it is also scant of breath. Sophie's scandal soon dwindled to a whisper and expired, and the kindlier and probable explanation of Hilda's wan face and downcast eyes was generally accepted.
Her code of morals and her method of dealing with moral questions were those of all the people about her--strict, severe, primitive. Feuerstein was a cheat, a traitor. She cast him out of her heart--cast him out at once and utterly and for ever. She could think of him only with shame. And it seemed to her that she was herself no longer pure--she had touched pitch; how could she be undefiled?
She accepted these conclusions and went about her work, too busy to indulge in hysteria of remorse, repining, self-examination.
She avoided Otto, taking care not to be left alone with him when he called on Sundays, and putting Sophie between him and her when he came up to them in the Square. But Otto was awaiting his chance, and when it came, plunged boldly into his heart-subject and floundered bravely about. ``I don't like to see you so sad, Hilda. Isn't there any chance for me? Can't things be as they used to be?''
Hilda shook her head sadly. ``I'm never going to marry,'' she said. ``You must find some one else.''
``It's you or nobody. I said that when we were in school together and--I'll stick to it.'' His eyes confirmed his words.
``You mustn't, Otto. You make me feel as if I were spoiling your life. And if you knew, you wouldn't want to marry me.''
``I don't care. I always have, and I always will.''
``I suppose I ought to tell you,'' she said, half to herself. She turned to him suddenly, and, with flushed cheeks and eyes that shifted, burst out: ``Otto, he was a married man!''
``But you didn't know.''
``It doesn't change the way I feel. You might--any man might--throw it up to me. And sooner or later, everybody'll know. No man would want
He was looking into the laughing face of a man who was obviously a detective.
``You don't seem glad to see me, old boy,'' said the detective with contemptuous familiarity.
``I don't know you, sir.'' Feuerstein made a miserable attempt at haughtiness.
``Of course you don't. But I know YOU--all about you. Come in here and let's sit down a minute.''
They went into a saloon and the detective ordered two glasses of beer. ``Now listen to me, young fellow,'' he said.
``You're played out in this town. You've got to get a move on you, see? We've been looking you up, and you're wanted for bigamy. But if you clear out, you won't be followed. You've got to leave today, understand? If you're here to-morrow morning, up the road you go.'' The detective winked and waggled his thumb meaningly in a northerly direction.
Feuerstein was utterly crushed. He gulped down the beer and sat wiping the sweat from his face. ``I have done nothing,'' he protested in tragic tones. ``Why am I persecuted--I, poor, friendless, helpless?''
``Pity about you,'' said the detective.
``You'd better go west and start again. Why not try honest work? It's not so bad, they say, once you get broke in.'' He rose and shook hands with Feuerstein. ``So long,'' he said. ``Good luck! Don't forget!'' And again he winked and waggled his thumb in the direction of the penitentiary.
Feuerstein went to his lodgings, put on all the clothes he could wear without danger of attracting his landlady's attention, filled his pockets and the crown of his hat with small articles, and fled to Hoboken.
IX
AN IDYL OF PLAIN PEOPLE
Hilda had not spent her nineteen years in the glare of the Spartan publicity in which the masses live without establishing a character. Just as she knew all the good points and bad in all the people of that community, so they knew all hers, and therefore knew what it was possible for her to do and what impossible. And if a baseless lie is swift of foot where everybody minutely scrutinizes everybody else, it is also scant of breath. Sophie's scandal soon dwindled to a whisper and expired, and the kindlier and probable explanation of Hilda's wan face and downcast eyes was generally accepted.
Her code of morals and her method of dealing with moral questions were those of all the people about her--strict, severe, primitive. Feuerstein was a cheat, a traitor. She cast him out of her heart--cast him out at once and utterly and for ever. She could think of him only with shame. And it seemed to her that she was herself no longer pure--she had touched pitch; how could she be undefiled?
She accepted these conclusions and went about her work, too busy to indulge in hysteria of remorse, repining, self-examination.
She avoided Otto, taking care not to be left alone with him when he called on Sundays, and putting Sophie between him and her when he came up to them in the Square. But Otto was awaiting his chance, and when it came, plunged boldly into his heart-subject and floundered bravely about. ``I don't like to see you so sad, Hilda. Isn't there any chance for me? Can't things be as they used to be?''
Hilda shook her head sadly. ``I'm never going to marry,'' she said. ``You must find some one else.''
``It's you or nobody. I said that when we were in school together and--I'll stick to it.'' His eyes confirmed his words.
``You mustn't, Otto. You make me feel as if I were spoiling your life. And if you knew, you wouldn't want to marry me.''
``I don't care. I always have, and I always will.''
``I suppose I ought to tell you,'' she said, half to herself. She turned to him suddenly, and, with flushed cheeks and eyes that shifted, burst out: ``Otto, he was a married man!''
``But you didn't know.''
``It doesn't change the way I feel. You might--any man might--throw it up to me. And sooner or later, everybody'll know. No man would want