Young Lossing had learned the business practically.  He was taught the details by his father’s best workman; and a mighty hard and strict master the best workman proved!  Lossing did not dream that the crabbed old tyrant who rarely praised him, who 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!”