Stories of a Western Town | Page 7

made him go over, for
the twentieth time, any imperfect piece of work, who exacted all the
artisan virtues to the last inch, was secretly proud of him. Yet, in fact,
the thread of romance in Lieders's prosaic life was his idolatry of the
Lossing Manufacturing Co. It is hard to tell whether it was the Lossings
or that intangible quantity, the firm, the business, that he worshipped.
Worship he did, however, the one or the other, perhaps the both of
them, though in the peevish and erratic manner of the savage who
sometimes grovels to his idols and sometimes kicks them.
Nobody guessed what a blow it was to Kurt when, a year ago, the elder
Lossing had died. Even his wife did not connect his sullen melancholy
and his gibes at the younger generation, with the crape on Harry
Lossing's hat. He would not go to the funeral, but worked savagely, all
alone by himself, in the shop, the whole afternoon--breaking down at
last at the sight of a carved panel over which Lossing and he had once

disputed. The desolate loneliness of the old came to him when his old
master was gone. He loved the young man, but the old man was of his
own generation; he had "known how things ought to be and he could
understand without talking." Lieders began to be on the lookout for
signs of waning consideration, to watch his own eyes and hands,
drearily wondering when they would begin to play him false; at the
same time because he was unhappy he was ten times as exacting and
peremptory and critical with the younger workmen, and ten times as
insolently independent with the young master. Often enough, Lossing
was exasperated to the point of taking the old man at his word and
telling him to go if he would, but every time the chain of long habit, a
real respect for such faithful service, and a keen admiration for Kurt's
matchless skill in his craft, had held him back. He prided himself on
keeping his word; for that reason he was warier of using it. So he
would compromise by giving the domineering old fellow a "good, stiff
rowing." Once, he coupled this with a threat, if they could not get along
decently they would better part! Lieders had answered not a word; he
had given Lossing a queer glance and turned on his heel. He went home
and bought some poison on the way. "The old man is gone and the
young feller don't want the old crank round, no more," he said to
himself. "Thekla, I guess I make her troubles, too; I'll git out!"
That was the beginning of his tampering with suicide. Thekla, who did
not have the same opinion of the "trouble," had interfered. He had
married Thekla to have someone to keep a warm fireside for him, but
she was an ignorant creature who never could be made to understand
about carving. He felt sorry for her when the baby died, the only child
they ever had; he was sorrier than he expected to be on his own account,
too, for it was an ugly little creature, only four days old, and very red
and wrinkled; but he never thought of confiding his own griefs or trials
to her. Now, it made him angry to have that stupid Thekla keep him in
a world where he did not wish to stay. If the next day Lossing had not
remembered how his father valued Lieders, and made an excuse to half
apologize to him, I fear Thekla's stratagems would have done little
good.
The next experience was cut out of the same piece of cloth. He had

relented, he had allowed his wife to save him; but he was angry in
secret. Then came the day when open disobedience to Lossing's orders
had snapped the last thread of Harry's patience. To Lieders's aggrieved
"If you ain't satisfied with my work, Mr. Lossing, I kin quit," the
answer had come instantly, "Very well, Lieders, I'm sorry to lose you,
but we can't have two bosses here: you can go to the desk." And when
Lieders in a blind stab of temper had growled a prophecy that Lossing
would regret it, Lossing had stabbed in turn: "Maybe, but it will be a
cold day when I ask you to come back." And he had gone off without
so much as a word of regret. The old workman had packed up his tools,
the pet tools that no one was ever permitted to touch, and crammed his
arms into his coat and walked out of the place where he had worked so
long, not a man saying a word. Lieders didn't reflect that they knew
nothing of the quarrel. He