The Fortune Hunter | Page 5

her lot, was
definitely fascinated by the idea that there might be something higher
and finer than the simple occupations and simple enjoyments which
had filled her life thus far.
In the evening after supper her father and mother left her and her
brother August in charge, and took their usual stroll for exercise and for
the profound delight of a look at their flat-houses--those reminders of
many years of toil and thrift. They had spent their youth, she as cook,
he as helper, in one of New York's earliest delicatessen shops. When
they had saved three thousand dollars they married and put into effect
the plan which had been their chief subject of conversation every day
and every evening for ten years-- they opened the ``delicatessen'' in
Avenue A, near Second Street. They lived in two back rooms; they
toiled early and late for twenty-three contented, cheerful years --she in
the shop when she was not doing the housework or caring for the
babies, he in the great clean cellar, where the cooking and
cabbage-cutting and pickling and spicing were done. And now, owners
of three houses that brought in eleven thousand a year clear, they were
about to retire. They had fixed on a place in the Bronx, in the East Side,
of course, with a big garden, where every kind of gay flower and good
vegetable could be grown, and an arbor where there could be pinochle,
beer and coffee on Sunday afternoons. In a sentence, they were
honorable and exemplary members of that great mass of humanity
which has the custody of the present and the future of the race--those
who live by the sweat of their own brows or their own brains, and train
their children to do likewise, those who maintain the true ideals of
happiness and progress, those from whom spring all the workers and all
the leaders of thought and action.
They walked slowly up the Avenue, speaking to their neighbors,
pausing now and then for a joke or to pat a baby on the head, until they
were within two blocks of Tompkins Square. They stopped before a
five-story tenement, evidently the dwelling-place of substantial,

intelligent, self-respecting artisans and their families, leading the
natural life of busy usefulness. In its first floor was a delicatessen-- the
sign read ``Schwartz and Heilig.'' Paul Brauner pointed with his long-
stemmed pipe at the one show-window.
``Fine, isn't it? Beautiful!'' he exclaimed in Low-German--they and
almost all their friends spoke Low-German, and used English only
when they could not avoid it.
The window certainly was well arranged. Only a merchant who knew
his business thoroughly--both his wares and his customers--could have
thus displayed cooked chickens, hams and tongues, the imported
sausages and fish, the jelly-inclosed paste of chicken livers, the bottles
and jars of pickled or spiced meats and vegetables and fruits. The
spectacle was adroitly arranged to move the hungry to yearning, the
filled to regret, and the dyspeptic to rage and remorse. And behind the
show-window lay a shop whose shelves, counters and floor were clean
as toil could make and keep them, and whose air was saturated with the
most delicious odors.
Mrs. Brauner nodded. ``Heilig was up at half-past four this morning,''
she said. ``He cleans out every morning and he moves everything twice
a week.'' She had a round, honest face that was an inspiring study in
simplicity, sense and sentiment.
``What a worker!'' was her husband's comment. ``So unlike most of the
young men nowadays. If August were only like him!''
``You'd think Heilig was a drone if he were your son,'' replied Mrs.
Brauner. She knew that if any one else had dared thus to attack their
boy, his father would have been growling and snapping like an angry
bear.
``That's right!'' he retorted with mock scorn. ``Defend your children!
You'll be excusing Hilda for putting off Heilig next.''
``She'll marry him--give her time,'' said Mrs. Brauner. ``She's romantic,
but she's sensible, too--why, she was born to make a good wife to a
hard-working man. Where's there another woman that knows the
business as she does? You admit on her birthdays that she's the only
real helper you ever had.''
``Except you,'' said her husband.
``Never mind me.'' Mrs. Brauner pretended to disdain the compliment.
Brauner understood, however. ``We have had the best, you and I,'' said

he.
``Arbeit und Liebe und Heim. Nicht wahr?'' Otto Heilig appeared in his
doorway and greeted them awkwardly. Nor did their cordiality lessen
his embarrassment. His pink and white skin was rosy red and his frank
blue-gray eyes shifted uneasily. But he was smiling with eager
friendliness, showing even, sound, white teeth.
``You are coming to see us to-morrow?'' asked Mrs. Brauner--he
always called on Sunday afternoons and stayed until five, when