The Fortune Hunter | Page 3

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THE FORTUNE HUNTER By DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS

Author of The Deluge, The Social Secretary The Plum Tree, etc.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
ENTER MR. FEURSTEIN II BRASS OUTSHINES GOLD III
FORTUNE FAVORS THE IMPUDENT IV A BOLD DASH AND A
DISASTER V A SENSITIVE SOUL SEEKS SALVE VI TRAGEDY
IN TOMKINS SQUARE VII LOVE IN SEVERAL ASPECTS VIII A
SHEEP WIELDS THE SHEARS IX AN IDYL OF PLAIN PEOPLE X
MR. FUERSTEIN IS CONSISTENT XI MR. FEURSTEIN'S
CLIMAX XII EXIT MR. FUERSTEIN

THE FORTUNE HUNTER

ENTER MR. FEUERSTEIN
On an afternoon late in April Feuerstein left his boarding-house in East
Sixteenth Street, in the block just beyond the eastern gates of
Stuyvesant Square, and paraded down Second Avenue.
A romantic figure was Feuerstein, of the German Theater stock
company. He was tall and slender, and had large, handsome features.
His coat was cut long over the shoulders and in at the waist to show his

lines of strength and grace. He wore a pearl-gray soft hat with rakish
brim, and it was set with suspicious carelessness upon bright blue, and
seemed to blazon a fiery, sentimental nature. He strode along, intensely
self-conscious, not in the way that causes awkwardness, but in the way
that causes a swagger. One had only to glance at him to know that he
was offensive to many men and fascinating to many women.
Not an article of his visible clothing had been paid for, and the ten-cent
piece in a pocket of his trousers was his total cash balance. But his
heart was as light as the day. Had he not youth? Had he not health? Had
he not looks to bewitch the women, brains to outwit the men?
Feuerstein sniffed the delightful air and gazed round, like a king in the
midst of cringing subjects. ``I feel that this is one of my lucky days,''
said he to himself. An aristocrat, a patrician, a Hochwohlgeboren, if
ever one was born.
At the Fourteenth-Street crossing he became conscious that a young
man was looking at him with respectful admiration and with the
anxiety of one who fears a distinguished acquaintance has forgotten
him. Feuerstein paused and in his grandest, most gracious manner, said:
``Ah! Mr. Hartmann--a glorious day!''
Young Hartmann flushed with pleasure and stammered, ``Yes--a
GLORIOUS day!''
``It is lucky I met you,'' continued Feuerstein. ``I had an appointment at
the Cafe Boulevard at four, and came hurrying away from my lodgings
with empty pockets--I am so absent-minded. Could you convenience
me for a few hours with five dollars? I'll repay you to-night--you will
be at Goerwitz's probably? I usually look in there after the theater.''
Hartmann colored with embarrassment.
``I'm sorry,'' he said humbly, ``I've got only a two-dollar bill. If it
would--''
Feuerstein looked annoyed. ``Perhaps I can make that do. Thank
you--sorry to trouble you. I MUST be more careful.''
The two dollars were transferred, Feuerstein gave Hartmann a
flourishing stage salute and strode grandly on. Before he had gone ten
yards he had forgotten Hartmann and had dismissed all financial
care--had he not enough to carry him through the day, even should he
meet no one who would pay for his dinner and his drinks? ``Yes, it is a
day to back myself to win--fearlessly!''

The hedge at the Cafe Boulevard was green and the tables were in the
yard and on the balconies; but Feuerstein entered, seated himself in one
of the smoke-fogged reading-rooms, ordered a glass of beer, and
divided his attention between the Fliegende Blatter and the faces of
incoming men. After half an hour two men in an arriving group of three
nodded coldly to him. He waited until they were seated, then joined
them and proceeded to make himself agreeable to the one who had just
been introduced to him--young Horwitz, an assistant bookkeeper at a
department store in Twenty-third Street. But Horwitz had a ``soul,'' and
the yearning of that secret soul was for the stage.