Stories of a Western Town | Page 9

That was Tuesday night, this was Wednesday morning.
The memory of it all, the cruel sense of injustice, returned with such
poignant force that Lieders groaned aloud.
Instantly, Thekla was bending over him. He did not know whether to
laugh at her or to swear, for she began fumbling at the ropes, half
sobbing. "Yes, I knowed they was hurting you, papa; I'm going to loose
one arm. Then I put it back again and loose the other. Please don't be
bad!"
He made no resistance and she was as good as her word. She unbound
and bound him in sections, as it were; he watching her with a morose
smile.
Then she left the room, but only to return with some hot coffee. Lieders
twisted his head away. "No," said he, "I don't eat none of that breakfast,
not if you make fresh coffee all the morning; I feel like I don't eat never
no more on earth."
Thekla knew that the obstinate nature that she tempted was proof
against temptation; if Kurt chose to starve, starve he would with food at
his elbow.
"Oh, papa," she cried, helplessly, "what IS the matter with you?"
"Just dying is the matter with me, Thekla. If I can't die one way I kin
another. Now Thekla, I want you to quit crying and listen. After I'm

gone you go to the boss, young Mr. Lossing-- but I always called him
Harry because he learned his trade of me, Thekla, but he don't think of
that now--and you tell him old Lieders that worked for him thirty years
is dead, but he didn't hold no hard feelings, he knowed he done wrong
'bout that mantel. Mind you tell him."
"Yes, papa," said Thekla, which was a surprise to Kurt; he had dreaded
a weak flood of tears and protestations. But there were no tears, no
protestations, only a long look at him and a contraction of the eyebrows
as if Thekla were trying to think of something that eluded her. She
placed the coffee on the tray beside the other breakfast. For a while the
room was very still. Lieders could not see the look of resolve that
finally smoothed the perplexed lines out of his wife's kind, simple old
face. She rose. "Kurt," she said, "I don't guess you remember this is our
wedding-day; it was this day, eighteen year we was married."
"So!" said Lieders, "well, I was a bad bargain to you, Thekla; after you
nursed your father that was a cripple for twenty years, I thought it
would be easy with me; but I was a bad bargain."
"The Lord knows best about that," said Thekla, simply, "be it how it be,
you are the only man I ever had or will have, and I don't like you starve
yourself. Papa, say you don't kill yourself, to-day, and dat you will eat
your breakfast!"
"Yes," Lieders repeated in German, "a bad bargain for thee, that is sure.
But thou hast been a good bargain for me. Here! I promise. Not this day.
Give me the coffee."
He had seasons, all the morning, of wondering over his meekness, and
his agreement to be tied up again, at night. But still, what did a day
matter? a man humors women's notions; and starving was so tedious.
Between whiles he elaborated a scheme to attain his end. How easy to
outwit the silly Thekla! His eyes shone, as he hid the little, sharp knife
up his cuff. "Let her tie me!" says Lieders, "I keep my word.
To-morrow I be out of this. He won't git a man like me, pretty soon!"
Thekla went about her daily tasks, with her every-day air; but, now and

again, that same pucker of thought returned to her forehead; and, more
than once, Lieders saw her stand over some dish, poising her spoon in
air, too abstracted to notice his cynical observation.
The dinner was more elaborate than common, and Thekla had broached
a bottle of her currant wine. She gravely drank Lieders's health. "And
many good days, papa," she said.
Lieders felt a queer movement of pity. After the table was cleared, he
helped his wife to wash and wipe the dishes as his custom was of a
Sunday or holiday. He wiped dishes as he did everything, neatly,
slowly, with a careful deliberation. Not until the dishes were put away
and the couple were seated, did Thekla speak.
"Kurt," she said, "I got to talk to you."
An inarticulate groan and a glance at the door from Lieders. "I just got
to, papa. It aint righd for you to do the way you been doing for so long
time; efery little whiles you try to kill yourself; no, papa, that aint
righd!"
Kurt, who had