Part 3

"We're no worse than you fellows are," Breen retorted. "Besides, this afternoon is no more and no less than an experiment in line with the contract of our triumvirate. Your inning will come, especially as you are writing a story, for which purpose--"

"I know," Nielsen admitted with cheerful slyness. "And I really need Erna to help me with it."

"And Carstairs will have to contribute his share of the contract, unless he persists in that 'count me out' air of his."

"Oh, he'll come around, in his own way," was Nielsen's confident assurance. "I saw him this morning, by the way--the first time I've seen him at Landsmann's in several days."

"How is he?"

"Unusually cheery and affable."

"He'll recover from that foolishness."

"I think so too, but--"

"Now, get out!" Breen commanded a third time. "You'll be gossipping here forever."

Nielsen took hold of the door knob, smiled in an aggravating manner, opened the door, bowed low and said in a droll tone: "Moral or unmoral, but--?"

Breen followed him, but Nielsen escaped, and the painter slammed the door. His mood changed instantly. He bustled around the studio, fixing this and rearranging that object and eventually looked about with satisfaction. He then approached a looking glass, readjusted his tie, smoothed his hair with his hand and otherwise subjected himself to a critical but self-satisfied examination, which, however, was cut short by a knock at the door. He hurried over to the door and opened it. "Come in!" he said cordially and stepped aside for Erna.

She was wearing her best clothes, which were very attractive on her. Unfortunately, the only red in the picture was a profusion of ribbons on her black hat and a neat tie--but fortunately, her red cheeks and lips were not missing. Altogether, Erna was a seductive apparition.

Certainly, this was Breen's opinion too. "How charming you look, your Ladyship!" he exclaimed.

"Do I?" she retorted, smiling.

"Oh decidedly, decidedly," and Breen bowed in anticipation of a pleasant afternoon. Bringing all of his courtesy to the surface, he helped Erna to remove her coat. She went over to the looking glass, laughed, cried: "You've got a glass too," and took off her hat with careless ease.

"What do you mean?" demanded Breen, standing behind her and surveying her reflection with open admiration.

"Nothin'," she returned rather impudently.

"A lovely girl that!" he added significantly.

"Think so?" she challenged.

"Decidedly," he repeated.

She shrugged her shoulders a little and smiled at him in the glass. Breen's interest grew. He tried to put his hands on her shoulders, by way of confidence, but Erna turned toward him with a quick supple movement. Like the accomplished artist she was, she said nothing, not even by way of reproach, but laughed again. He eyed her with still franker admiration.

"Well?" she questioned.

"Oh, I know," he said, recollecting his rôle, and went on evasively: "But you're not wearing your red dress or very much red?"

"What difference does that make? Maybe you'd rather have me come some other time?"

"No, no! You stay right here, now that you've come. You'll do just as well in that costume. The same Erna Vitek is inside it. But--er--"

"But what?"

"I won't attempt a color sketch of you in that dress. There, there, forgive me--it's very charming, my dear, but-- Perhaps, I'll just make a pencil sketch of you to-day. Artists ought to commence with pencil sketches anyhow, until the characters of their subjects have had time to properly enter their blood, so to speak. Which, of course, is all Greek to you. Do you object, madame?"

"No, do me any way you like," she consented.

"Oh, if you feel that way about it," he hinted audaciously.

"Take care!" she warned.

Breen went over to the model throne and pretended to place the chair for her. He was sorry that he had had to suggest even a pencil sketch of her, but he was forced to attempt some part of their original agreement. What is more, he had practically cast away all thought of "studying" Erna, later to make his report before the triumvirate. She was too interesting and magnetic an individual to be used for such a childish purpose. "Come over here and sit down," he requested calmly.

Giving herself an unexpected air of modesty, she complied, at the same time adding a prudish touch by fixing her skirt carefully as she sat down. Breen was puzzled, but drew up a chair, took a pencil and sketch book and seated himself. "I'm going ta draw you at close range," he apologized. She smiled in encouragement.

Breen commenced drawing, very carelessly, it is true. Erna watched him with innocent eyes. "Do I pose right?" she asked at length.

"Yes," he assured her.

She was silent.

A little later, she asked: "Do your models have to keep quiet?"

"Not at all! Chatter away!"

But she preferred to remain silent. To tell the truth, this was not Erna's first experience as a sitter. She had posed for two or three other artists in the past: once as Carmen, another time as a madonna, and a third time for some allegorical effort concerning Spring. Breen continued to study her for the drawing. His mind, however, or that region wherein its desires lay, was more busy than his pencil. Ten minutes or so later, he stopped drawing and held the pad off, squinted one eye at Erna, then at the drawing and again at Erna.

"Do you like being winked at?" he asked.

"Depends upon who's doin' it," she commented.

"Don't you like me to do it?"

"I don't know," she replied enigmatically.

He got up from his chair and approached her.

"Bring the picture with you!" she requested.

Breen, however, once more tried to put his hands on her. She pushed back her chair, and in outraged tones commanded: "Mr. Breen!"

"I beg your pardon," he said with well assumed candor, but he was irritated to a considerable degree. "I merely wanted to change your pose a bit."

"Well, why didn't you ask _me_ to do it?" she complained, her innocent self again.

He returned to his chair without explaining.

"Am I all right now?" she asked.

"Pull your chair forward again."

"So?"

"That'll do."

Erna watched him as before, and Breen went on drawing. But his usually well balanced mind was ruffled. He tried to construct some other scheme. Erna had always been quite prone (after all, she was only a waitress) to permit occasional familiarity on his part at Landsmann's. What made her play the prude away from home? Perhaps she was, at heart, like the rest of her class, nothing more than a narrow moralistic thing, and not the unmoral soul he had constantly given her credit for being. His disgust was supreme. On the contrary, he mused, she might only be playing a part. Admitting that Erna, in society, only held the position of waitress, still, she was a very shrewd girl. He must try some other attack, allowing her the credit she deserved. He had attempted flattery, pleasantry and not a little boldness. What should be his next step?

Eventually, the young artist tried bribery. Having finished his work, he presented it to Erna accompanied by a short but eloquently complimentary speech. The girl did not neglect to admire the drawing and to thank him for the present. His act, apparently, made no stronger impression on her. Later, he suggested and, with her consent, prepared and served some tea and biscuits. They were sitting at a small cosy table. About them, the atmosphere had spread a halo of warmth and intimacy. And Breen played host and admirer to the best of his accomplished ability. But Erna refused to respond any more than she had done earlier. She appeared grateful; she talked a good deal; and she seemed completely at ease with Breen and her surroundings. But she would not respond more than she had done. Breen's disgust threatened to reach a climax.

There was a reason for Erna's conduct. She, in her greed of heart, playing with Breen, as she had with Carstairs, the part of a watchful cat, had come to several conclusions. She disliked the artist's long, angular figure, his sharp, shrewd face, and most of all, his cold, self-sympathetic eyes. And she disliked him personally even more. Without claiming any undue powers of discernment for Erna, one would surely have had to credit her with the possession of a strong feminine instinct. Her instinct had resented his attentions, for, behind them all, she had felt that he, as a gentleman, was shoving her down where she belonged. She was a waitress, but she was good looking enough and lots of fun for him--and much more in prospect. In a word, Breen had brought out the hard calculating side of her nature, and she had raised her guard against him.

Furthermore, Erna was in a bad humor when she came to Breen's studio, her genial conduct notwithstanding. She had seen Jimmy that noon in the dining room, but he had spent all of his time talking fight with the customers. As though the fact that he was to turn to the ring to-morrow night would bring the world to an end! She would pay him for neglecting her. Besides, Mr. Nielsen had been approaching her. He had been asking her to "pose" for him too. Did he also want to take advantage of her? Still, there was something human inside of him. He had always acted a little differently from the others. As for Jimmy--

Breen interrupted her reflection. He reached across the table and tried to touch her hand. Erna's face flushed with anger, and her hand came down upon his with a loud slap. Just as quickly, she recollected herself. "Excuse me!" she asked sullenly.

Breen, however, was through. He arose from his chair. This had been impudence beyond all impudence. And the man of success turned his back upon the waitress.

Erna likewise got up, leaving the sketch on the table. She did not offer a second apology. Instead, she drew on her coat, picked up her hat and walked over to the glass. Her face was crimson.

Breen was quite sorry. He came behind Erna and made several attempts to clear some momentary pangs of conscience. But Erna would not listen. He moved away, pride clouding his face.

Erna hurried toward the door. Breen followed her, offering one or two final excuses. But she refused to answer, and went out. Breen slammed the door behind her. Presently, he was busy pacing the studio in a vain endeavor to regain some of his composure.

Steps were to be heard coming along the hallway. The door was opened cautiously, and Nielsen's head and shoulders appeared. And his caressing voice questioned: "Well, your Highness, what is your decision? Moral, unmoral or--?"

Breen faced about, swore a strong oath and commanded: "Get out of here!"

"But, dear Bainbridge--"

"Get out, you spy!" Breen continued angrily, and went toward the door.

"But I want to know your decision."

"Moral, moral, a million times moral--she has degenerated--in fact, she hasn't even degenerated. I wouldn't do her the honor of saying so. She's always been a narrow, conventional, contemptible little thing. Is that enough, you ass? She's a--"

"Enough, noble Sire!" Nielsen interrupted with a mysterious air. "Thou hast spoken. Enough!" Luckily, his head and shoulders disappeared just in time.

Breen slammed the door.

VII

Wednesday morning was a particularly noisy morning in the rear dining room of Landsmann's. Jimmy Allen was the hero. On the night before, he had knocked out his opponent toward the close of the first round. Some of his admirers had met at Landsmann's to discuss and celebrate the event, and one who had been present was supplying the others with the details.

"An' toward the end o' the round," he was describing, "Jimmy ducked under the poor 'Kid's' flabby guard an' caught 'im an awful soak in the guts, an' as 'the Kid' doubled up, Jimmy swung the finisher--it was a terror!--right on the point o' the jaw. 'The Kid' hit the mat deader than a door nail. An' they carried 'im away, a smashed hope inside o' three minutes."

The listeners clamored for more, and one of them queried: "But I thought 'the Kid' was such a clever sidestepper?"

"He is, but he couldn't sidestep Jimmy. Jimmy's a terror in the ring. He's a good-natured feller outside, but the sight of another feller in front of 'im kind o' riles 'is blood. He can't rest till he's battered the guy away, an' let 'im see a little blood, like 'the Kid's' mouth bleedin', an' it's all off 'cept the count, for Jimmy goes wild. He got to 'the Kid' by constant borein' in. Half a dozen fierce body taps weakened the poor guy, then a couple o' face smashers, an' then the finish. Oh, it was awful."

The listeners sighed with awe. "An' Jimmy?" requested the interlocutor.

"Oh, he got a scratch or two. But he was 'is smilin' self soon's it was over."

Standing near the doorway, listening to every word with feverish interest, was Erna. Her eyes shone, and her heart beat with joyous pride.

Landsmann suddenly called to her from the kitchen: "Erna, your order is here." She did not heed him, but waited for more details. Again, the storekeeper called to her, but once more, she refused to heed him. The man appeared in the doorway, his face red with vexation. "Erna! Do you hear me?"

"Yes, yes," she retorted petulantly, and hurried past him. He followed close behind her, and as she turned, gave her a stupid but indignant stare. Erna returned his stare with interest, and Landsmann, beaten as he had been so often, retreated to the store, there to seek muttered consultation with his wife.

Erna was about to take up her order, when she came upon a remarkable sight. She stopped, stared and, stimulated by a desire to emulate, tiptoed forward, her strong white teeth showing in the joy of anticipation. On the bottom of the kitchen sink, a goodly sized rat was drinking.

The girl continued to sneak forward without making a sound. Suddenly, her hand darted out and seized the rat by the neck; at the same time, she turned on the water from the large faucet. With a strong grip, she held the squirming, squeaking animal under the stream.

Gretchen screamed and ran out into the store. "_Was ist los?_" demanded the storekeeper. Gretchen told her story in a frightened whisper. Mrs. Landsmann and Molly screamed; several customers arose and, led by Landsmann, who waddled forward, came into the kitchen. Landsmann stopped short at a respectful distance from Erna, eyed her furiously and shouted imprecations. She paid no attention to him, but continued her pleasant task, her face alight with animal joy and brutality. The rat's life was soon extinguished, due, perhaps, more to Erna's fingers than the water. Proudly holding it out by the tail for display, she dropped the body into a pail under the sink.

The storekeeper approached her, followed by the customers. The latter profferred congratulations, but not so Herr Landsmann. He grabbed some table refuse and dumping it into the pail, piled some old newspapers on top, all the while averting his face as much as possible. He then turned upon Erna, but she stood her ground, defying him, and the storekeeper was forced to resort to still stronger imprecation. Erna grew impudent in the knowledge of her righteousness, and Landsmann had to retreat once more, but this time with threatening gestures and for an even angrier consultation with his wife. The other waitresses refused to return to the kitchen, but went over to assist Landsmann.

The customers, who had been joined by others from the rear dining room, refused to leave the kitchen, each one wishing to pay Erna homage by compliment or by taking her arm. Jimmy Allen was forgotten. At first, the girl, conscious of the sensation she had created so accidentally,--killing rats was not entirely new to her--faced her worshippers with an exultant smile. Soon, she tired of their praise, and more so of their physical attentions, a repetition of their usual conduct toward her. Furthermore, the storekeeper's attitude rankled deeper and deeper, until anger controlled her. Therefore, she pushed her way through the gathering, ordered all back to their tables, a command they obeyed under protest, and returned to her duties with a decidedly willful air. If only Jimmy were here!

Within the next hour or so, Herr Landsmann, backed by his wife's moral support, came into the kitchen four times to reprimand Erna. He had even hunted for other pretexts to scold her. By nine o'clock, when Erna was almost alone in her small empire, her resentment had reached a state of revolt. Why didn't he bounce her at once? It would be better. In fact, she would leave of her own free will. That would be better still. She would be free. She had a right to be happy. She had always been happy. So she would be free, Landsmann, his wife and the rest of the world notwithstanding. How she hated and despised them! Let any one else try to tie her hands!

Another half hour passed, and Erna's determination grew. Her whole fighting instinct had been set astir. As a result, she had treated the few remaining customers with contemptuous neglect. They were all of one breed. And they left, one by one, passing remarks, laughing or trying to banter her. Soon she was left to herself and surly reflection, as Landsmann, luckily, had discontinued molesting her--for the present, at least. However, a newcomer entered the dining room. But he was the highly welcome Jimmy Allen.

Erna greeted him with joy. She had forgotten her yesterday's resentment, in his sudden rise to honor and in her present need. And Jimmy greeted her with joy. No other word passed between them. Instead, Jimmy embraced her with all of his brute strength. He then tried kissing her, only to have Erna slip from his grasp. Jimmy's blood was aroused. He pursued Erna, cornered her and caught her with an even stronger embrace than before, breathing hard with passion. They overturned a chair, and Jimmy tripped and lost his hold. They both breathed rapidly, and stood apart, watching each other. Herr Landsmann looked into the dining room, scowled and disappeared.

Jimmy again came closer, but Erna shook her head in warning. She had seen the storekeeper. Presently, she gave her lover a short nervous account of her morning's trial. Jimmy swore a generous oath and begged her to drop her work at once. But Erna hesitated.

"Ah, come out o' this!" he pleaded.

Erna would not answer.

"Come out o' this, Erna!" he repeated seriously. "You're sick o' this. I'm sick o' this. Let's go away. We're fixed now--or as good as fixed. The only job's the minister's. Come on, Erna!"

Still, the girl refused to answer, but it was evident that she was weakening--as Jimmy was aware too. Hurriedly, he recounted his victory of last night, emphasized the fact that he was stronger than ever, knew "more about the game," and outlined the near future: that he was soon to meet Young Walcott, whom he would dispose of, and some unknown from Chicago. He would have quite a little money shortly, and he could support her "as a decent woman should be supported." She would be happy. They would both be happy. "Come on, Erna!" he concluded. "Be a sport!"

Erna was in a groggy state. One last stinging argument would have finished her. She hesitated, as did Jimmy, who, unfortunately, resorted to stalling.

At length, she said: "Gimme until to-night!"

Now, Jimmy missed entirely: "But I say, Erna. I got an important date then."

Her resentment returned at once. She recalled his neglect of yesterday. "What?" she demanded jealously.

"I got to see Nolan an' Walcott an' his manager to-night. We got to talk over an' arrange things. Besides, Nolan's givin' a little spread in my honor among the boys. Can't you tell me now? Tell me now!"

"I said _to-night_, didn't I?" she retorted in dangerous tones.

"I know, Erna, but I can't see you to-night. Make it to-morrow night, an' we'll talk it over, long's you won't say now. Make it to-morrow night! An' I'll spend the whole evenin' with you."

Erna had turned her back on him. Jimmy came closer, but she walked away, while he followed her, foolishly continuing to apologize and to cajole her. Unhappily, Jimmy's suit was interrupted. Another man came into the dining room: Eric Nielsen.

Glances passed between them. Nielsen went over to the farthermost corner, took off his hat and coat and sat down. Jimmy looked at Erna on the sly, but she paid no attention to him. The young fighter did not stay for breakfast. He left the room without another word. And Erna smiled secretly.

Nielsen, always a lover of other's secrets, had digested most of the scene. But he was still a diplomat. Consequently, he said nothing and permitted Erna to come over for his order. She looked nervous and uncertain.

"What's new?" he asked pleasantly.

"Nothin'."

"Still ham and eggs and the old program?"

She smiled slightly. "Yes!"

He ordered some eggs, toast and a cup of black coffee and explained: "I need some energy for work this morning. I feel dopy."

Erna smiled again and went away. She was feeling a little better. There was always something soothing in Nielsen and his banter. And she did not wait in the kitchen for his order, but came back to his table. Erna rarely acted parts in Nielsen's company.

He looked up sympathetically. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but knowing her antipathy for expressed sympathy or soft advances, remained silent. Herr Landsmann looked in upon them. Erna flushed with her old resentment, and the storekeeper frowned and disappeared. Nielsen remarked the exchange. "That's it, is it?" he observed gently.

"What?"

"The boss?"

She was thoughtful and then admitted: "Yes."

"What's the Dutchman done?"

Slowly, and not without reluctance in the beginning, she told him the details, he interrupting her once or twice with encouragement. "Shades of Norway!" he exclaimed in admiration. "You could easily play the Rat-wife in 'Little Eyolf'."

She looked at him in a puzzled way, but he laughed and advised her: "Don't mind me; I'm cracked. Go on!"

Erna related the rest of the incident. He was quietly attentive to every detail, and at the conclusion of her recital, broke out cheerfully: "The trouble with the German is that he's too slow to catch even a cockroach. Therefore, he resents speed. So Landsmann calls you down. And the girls--well, they're children, like most females. You're entirely too dramatic for their comfort."

Erna never quite understood Nielsen, but she mellowed down to some of her old good nature. Nielsen continued his reassuring nonsense, and gradually, the rest of her good nature was restored. The young writer was not slow to notice the change, and he was glad to have been of service to her. He had no desire to make any personal use of Erna's present mental condition, but nevertheless, he proceeded: "Erna, you must be tired."

"Yes?"

"Certainly. You need a little rest--a little diversion. Let me help you out; there's a sensible girl. Will you come over and spend part of the evening with me?"

His request had not been a bold one; he had made it seriously, and with no thought of himself. But Erna gave him a sharp look. He met her glance with an honest one and pursued: "I don't want you to pose for the story, as I asked you yesterday--honestly, I don't. I just want to amuse you a little, if I can. You need a bit of a change, even by having me supply it."

This was approaching dangerously close to a soft advance, but Erna did not heed it. She was still busy trying to read Nielsen, but reading Nielsen was not so easy as appearances would have led one to believe. However, she was able to read humanity behind his lurking smile, and likewise his seriousness of purpose. "I don't know," she said in doubt.

"You're not afraid?"

"No," she admitted.

"Come ahead then. We'll have a quiet little evening together, or you can tell me some more about your enemies, German and others. As for posing, I'll do the posing, such as standing on my head, for example."