Kuno Kohn lived in a large, ordinary room, in a summer-house on a side street in the western section.  However, the bed was exceptionally wide, almost ostentatious.  On the pillow lay yellowish and red flowers.  In front of the window stood a writing-table on which there were some books—­perhaps Baudelaire, George, Rilke.  Near it and on it lay sheets of paper, which were apparently covered with finished and unfinished poems and treatises.  On a shelf at a window stood volumes of Goethe, Shakespeare, a Bible, and a translation of Homer.  On the table and chairs lay perhaps newspapers and pieces of clothing.  Somewhere lay yellowed photos of old people and children.  The locksmith looked at everything with curiosity.

They soon sat down.  The conversation, which was lively at first, gradually faltered.  Kuno Kohn turned the lamp down.  Later he spoke softly and imploringly to the locksmith.  Then he offered him the bed.  He himself would sleep on the sofa.  The locksmith agreed.

Kuno Kohn arranged for a subordinate position for his friend Mechenmal at a newspaper publishing office.  Mechenmal picked up his new trade with surprising swiftness, and very soon obtained sufficient knowledge of salesmanship.  He changed positions and managed, by means of energy and all kinds of dirty tricks, after a year and a few months, to hold a position of trust as an independent manager of a newspaper kiosk.

II

Because he had a pleasant way of speaking as well as a face that looked like that of an intelligent doll, the former locksmith soon had won a very large number of steady customers, for the most part female.  In the morning a dozen saleswomen from a nearby department store, having purposely arrived too early, gathered around his kiosk to enjoy the dirty jokes and cheerful comments of Mr. Mechenmal.  The bank officer Leopold Lehmann, who always arrived punctually at eight o’clock, to buy illustrated joke books and theological tracts, sometimes became impatient, because the cheerful saleswomen disturbed him as he tried to make his selection.  And the school-teacher Theo Tontod, who tirelessly, and, as a rule, uselessly asked for the modern newspaper, “The Other A,” often got to school too late.  Around noon, almost every day, the choral-singer Mabel Meier came, on the arm of an old man.  She bought colorful, spicy newspapers, or sentimental ones, with long lyrical poems.  The old man, who always had a whining expression, sighed as he paid.  She was reserved with Mechenmal.  At odd hours, Mieze Maier, a teen-ager, also came, and asked whether Herr Tontod had been there.  Once Mieze Maier remained longer; from that time on she did it more frequently.  Sometimes a fat, agreeable servant-girl of the salesman Konrad Krause was at the kiosk.  She said to Mechenmal that he was good-looking, that he had passionately dark eyes and a kissable mouth, asked if he had time on Sundays to go dancing—­she