The Fortune Hunter | Page 6

of the break in the custom. ``Oh, you must come,'' she said. ``We'd feel strange all week if we didn't see you on Sunday.''
``Yes--I must have my cards,'' insisted Brauner. He and Otto always played pinochle; Otto's eyes most of the time and his thoughts all the time were on Hilda, in the corner, at the zither, playing the maddest, most romantic music; her father therefore usually won, poor at the game though he was. It made him cross to lose, and Otto sometimes defeated his own luck deliberately when love refused to do it for him.
``Very well, then--that is--if I can-- I'll try to come.''
Several customers pushed past him into his shop and he had to rejoin his partner, Schwartz, behind the counters. Brauner and his wife walked slowly home--it was late and there would be more business than Hilda and August could attend to. As they crossed Third Street Brauner said: ``Hilda must go and tell him to come. This is her doing.''
``But she can't do that,'' objected Mrs. Brauner. ``She'd say it was throwing herself at his head.''
``Not if I send her?'' Brauner frowned with a seeming of severity. ``Not if I, her father, send her--for two chickens, as we're out?'' Then he laughed. His fierceness was the family joke when Hilda was small she used to say, ``Now, get mad, father, and make little Hilda laugh!''
Hilda was behind the counter, a customer watching with fascinated eyes the graceful, swift movements of her arms and hands as she tied up a bundle. Her sleeves were rolled to her dimpled elbows, and her arms were round and strong and white, and her skin was fine and smooth. Her shoulders were wide, but not square; her hips were narrow, her wrists, her hands, her head, small. She looked healthy and vigorous and useful as well as beautiful.
When the customers had gone Brauner said: ``Go up to Schwartz and Heilig, daughter, and ask them for two two-pound chickens. And tell Otto Heilig you'll be glad to see him to-morrow.''
``But we don't need the chickens, now. We--'' Hilda's brow contracted and her chin came out.
``Do as I tell you,'' said her father.
``MY children shall not sink to the disrespect of these days.''
``But I shan't be here to-morrow! I've made another engagement.''
``You SHALL be here to-morrow! If you don't wish young Heilig here for your own sake, you must show consideration for your parents. Are they to be deprived of their Sunday afternoon? You have never done this before, Hilda. You have never forgotten us before.''
Hilda hung her head; after a moment she unrolled her sleeves, laid aside her apron and set out. She was repentant toward her father, but she felt that Otto was to blame. She determined to make him suffer for it--how easy it was to make him suffer, and how pleasant to feel that this big fellow was her slave! She went straight up to him. ``So you complained of me, did you?'' she said scornfully, though she knew well that he had not, that he could not have done anything that even seemed mean.
He flushed. ``No--no,'' he stammered. ``No, indeed, Hilda. Don't think--''
She looked contempt. ``Well, you've won. Come down Sunday afternoon. I suppose I'll have to endure it.''
``Hilda, you're wrong. I will NOT come!'' He was angry, but his mind was confused. He loved her with all the strength of his simple, straightforward nature. Therefore he appeared at his worst before her--usually either incoherent or dumb. It was not surprising that whenever it was suggested that only a superior man could get on so well as he did, she always answered: ``He works twice as hard as any one else, and you don't need much brains if you'll work hard.''
She now cut him short. ``If you don't come I'll have to suffer for it,'' she said. ``You MUST come! I'll not be glad to see you. But if you don't come I'll never speak to you again!'' And she left him and went to the other counter and ordered the chickens from Schwartz.
Heilig was wretched,--another of those hideous dilemmas over which he had been stumbling like a drunken man in a dark room full of furniture ever since he let his mother go to Mrs. Brauner and ask her for Hilda. He watched Hilda's splendid back, and fumbled about, upsetting bottles and rattling dishes, until she went out with a glance of jeering scorn. Schwartz burst out laughing.
``Anybody could tell you are in love,'' he said. ``Be stiff with her, Otto, and you'll get her all right. It don't do to let a woman see that you care about her. The worse you treat the women the better they like it. When they used to tell my father about some woman being crazy over a man,