Part 6

She followed him into a little room. He shut the door.

Declining the chair that he pushed toward her she stood in the centre of the room, looking at him with the pleading eyes of a child.

“Mr. Lossing, will you please save my Kurt from killing himself?”

“What do you mean?” Lossing's voice had not thawed.

“It is for you that he will kill himself, Mr. Lossing. This is the dird time he has done it. It is because he is so lonesome now, your father is died and he thinks that you forget, and he has worked so hard for you, but he thinks that you forget. He was never tell me till yesterday; and then--it was--it was because I would not let him hang himself----”

“Hang himself?” stammered Lossing, “you don't mean----”

“Yes, he was hang himself, but I cut him, no I broke him down,” said Thekla, accurate in all the disorder of her spirits; and forthwith, with many tremors, but clearly, she told the story of Kurt's despair. She told, as Lieders never would have known how to tell, even had his pride let him, all the man's devotion for the business, all his personal attachment to the firm; she told of his gloom after the elder Lossing died, “for he was think there was no one in this town such good man and so smart like your fader, Mr. Lossing, no, and he would set all the evening and try to draw and make the lines all wrong, and, then, he would drow the papers in the fire and go and walk outside and he say, 'I can't do nothing righd no more now the old man's died; they don't have no use for me at the shop, pretty quick!' and that make him feel awful bad!” She told of his homesick wanderings about the shops by night; “but he was better as a watchman, he wouldn't hurt it for the world! He telled me how you was hide his dinner-pail onct for a joke, and put in a piece of your pie, and how you climbed on the roof with the hose when it was afire. And he telled me if he shall die I shall tell you that he ain't got no hard feelings, but you didn't know how that mantel had ought to be, so he done it right the other way, but he hadn't no righd to talk to you like he done, nohow, and you was all righd to send him away, but you might a shaked hands, and none of the boys never said nothing nor none of them never come to see him, 'cept Carl Olsen, and that make him feel awful bad, too! And when he feels so bad he don't no more want to live, so I make him promise if I git him back he never try to kill himself again. Oh, Mr. Lossing, please don't let my man die!”

Bewildered and more touched than he cared to feel, himself, Lossing still made a feeble stand for discipline. “I don't see how Lieders can expect me to take him back again,” he began.

“He aint expecting you, Mr. Lossing, it's ME!”

“But didn't Lieders tell you I told him I would never take him back?”

“No, sir, no, Mr. Lossing, it was not that, it was you said it would be a cold day that you would take him back; and it was git so cold yesterday, so I think, 'Now it would be a cold day to-morrow and Mr. Lossing he can take Kurt back.' And it IS the most coldest day this year!”

Lossing burst into a laugh, perhaps he was glad to have the Western sense of humor come to the rescue of his compassion. “Well, it was a cold day for you to come all this way for nothing,” said he. “You go home and tell Lieders to report to-morrow.”

Kurt's manner of receiving the news was characteristic. He snorted in disgust: “Well, I did think he had more sand than to give in to a woman!” But after he heard the whole story he chuckled: “Yes, it was that way he said, and he must do like he said; but that was a funny way you done, Thekla. Say, mamma, yesterday, was you look out for the cat or to find how cold it been?”

“Never you mind, papa,” said Thekla, “you remember what you promised if I git you back?”

Lieders's eyes grew dull; he flung his arms out, with a long sigh. “No, I don't forget, I will keep my promise, but--it is like the handcuffs, Thekla, it is like the handcuffs!” In a second, however, he added, in a changed tone, “But thou art a kind jailer, mamma, more like a comrade. And no, it was not fair to thee--I know that now, Thekla.”

THE FACE OF FAILURE

AFTER the week's shower the low Iowa hills looked vividly green. At the base of the first range of hills the Blackhawk road winds from the city to the prairie. From its starting-point, just outside the city limits, the wayfarer may catch bird's-eye glimpses of the city, the vast river that the Iowans love, and the three bridges tying three towns to the island arsenal. But at one's elbow spreads Cavendish's melon farm. Cavendish's melon farm it still is, in current phrase, although Cavendish, whose memory is honored by lovers of the cantaloupe melon, long ago departed to raise melons for larger markets; and still a weather-beaten sign creaks from a post announcing to the world that “the celebrated Cavendish Melons are for Sale here!” To-day the melon-vines were softly shaded by rain-drops. A pleasant sight they made, spreading for acres in front of the green-houses where mushrooms and early vegetables strove to outwit the seasons, and before the brown cottage in which Cavendish had begun a successful career. The black roof-tree of the cottage sagged in the middle, and the weather-boarding was dingy with the streaky dinginess of old paint that has never had enough oil. The fences, too, were unpainted and rudely patched. Nevertheless a second glance told one that there were no gaps in them, that the farm machines kept their bright colors well under cover, and that the garden rows were beautifully straight and clean. An old white horse switched its sleek sides with its long tail and drooped its untrammelled neck in front of the gate. The wagon to which it was harnessed was new and had just been washed. Near the gate stood a girl and boy who seemed to be mutually studying each other's person. Decidedly the girl's slim, light figure in its dainty frock repaid one's eyes for their trouble; and her face, with its brilliant violet eyes, its full, soft chin, its curling auburn hair and delicate tints, was charming; but her brother's look was anything but approving. His lip curled and his small gray eyes grew smaller under his scowling brows.

“Is THAT your best suit?” said the girl.

“Yes, it is; and it's GOING to be for one while,” said the boy.

It was a suit of the cotton mixture that looks like wool when it is new, and cuts a figure on the counters of every dealer in cheap ready-made clothing. It had been Tim Powell's best attire for a year; perhaps he had not been careful enough of it, and that was why it no longer cared even to imitate wool; it was faded to the hue of a clay bank, it was threadbare, the trousers bagged at the knees, the jacket bagged at the elbows, the pockets bulged flabbily from sheer force of habit, although there was nothing in them.

“I thought you were to have a new suit,” said the girl. “Uncle told me himself he was going to buy you one yesterday when you went to town.”

“I wouldn't have asked him to buy me anything yesterday for more'n a suit of clothes.”

“Why?” The girl opened her eyes. “Didn't he do anything with the lawyer? Is that why you are both so glum this morning?”

“No, he didn't. The lawyer says the woman that owns the mortgage has got to have the money. And it's due next week.”

The girl grew pale all over her pretty rosy cheeks; her eyes filled with tears as she gasped, “Oh, how hateful of her, when she promised----”

“She never promised nothing, Eve; it ain't been hers for more than three months. Sloan, that used to have it, died, and left his property to be divided up between his nieces; and the mortgage is her share. See?”

“I don't care, it's just as mean. Mr. Sloan promised.”

“No, he didn't; he jest said if Uncle was behind he wouldn't press him; and he did let Uncle get behind with the interest two times and never kicked. But he died; and now the woman, she wants her money!”