Carl, honest soul, stood about in Lieders’s workshop, kicking the shavings with his heels for half an hour, and grinned sheepishly, and was told what a worthless, scamping, bragging lot the “boys” at Lossing’s were, and said he guessed he had got to go home now; and so departed, unwitting that his presence had been a consolation.  Mrs. Olsen asked Carl what Lieders said; Carl answered simply, “Say, Freda, that man feels terrible bad.”

Meanwhile Thekla seemed easily satisfied.  She made no outcry as Lieders had dreaded, over his leaving the shop.

“Well, then, papa, you don’t need git up so early in the morning no more, if you aint going to the shop,” was her only comment; and Lieders despised the mind of woman more than ever.

But that evening, while Lieders was down town (occupied, had she known it, with a codicil to his will), she went over to the Olsens and found out all Carl could tell her about the trouble in the shop.  And it was she that made the excuse of marketing to go out the next day, that she might see the rich widow on the hill who was talking about a china closet, and Judge Trevor, who had asked the price of a mantel, and Mr. Martin, who had looked at sideboards (all this information came from honest Carl); and who proposed to them that they order such furniture of the best cabinet-maker in the country, now setting up on his own account.  He, simple as a baby for all his doggedness, thought that they came because of his fame as a workman, and felt a glow of pride, particularly as (having been prepared by the wife, who said, “You see it don’t make so much difference with my Kurt ’bout de prize, if so he can get the furniture like he wants it, and he always know of the best in the old country”) they all were duly humble.  He accepted a few orders and went to work with a will; he would show them what the old man could do.  But it was only a temporary gleam; in a little while he grew homesick for the shop, for the sawdust floor and the familiar smell of oil, and the picture of Lossing flitting in and out.  He missed the careless young workmen at whom he had grumbled, he missed the whir of machinery, and the consciousness of rush and hurry accented by the cars on the track outside.  In short, he missed the feeling of being part of a great whole.  At home, in his cosey little improvised shop, there was none to dispute him, but there was none to obey him either.  He grew deathly tired of it all.  He got into the habit of walking around the shops at night, prowling about his old haunts like a cat.  Once the night watchman saw him.  The next day there was a second watchman engaged.  And Olsen told him very kindly, meaning only to warn him, that he was suspected to be there for no good purpose.  Lieders confirmed a lurking suspicion of the good Carl’s own, by the clouding of his face.  Yet he would have chopped his hand off rather than have lifted it against the shop.

That was Tuesday night, this was Wednesday morning.