“At an electors’ meeting,” Theresa answered morosely. “They couldn’t meet properly, according to him, if he isn’t there.”
At that moment a man in a workingman’s blouse entered the shop and began to talk to Theresa urgently in a soft but excited voice. “I bought the set of books and they’re my property,” said the man. “Suppose I did skip a payment. That’s no reason to lose my property. I call that sharp practice, Frau Schimmelweis, that’s what I call it.”
“What did Herr Wachsmuth buy of us?” Theresa turned to the shop-assistant.
“Schlosser’s ‘History of the World,’” was the prompt answer.
“Then you’d better read your contract,” Theresa said to the workingman. “The terms are all fixed there.”
“That’s sharp practice, Frau Schimmelweis, sharp practice,” the man repeated, as though this phrase summed up all he could express in the way of withering condemnation. “A fellow like me wants to get on and wants to learn something. All right. So I think I’ll buy me a book and get a step ahead in knowledge. So where do I go? To a party member, to Comrade Schimmelweis, thinking natural-like I’m safe in his hands. I pay sixty marks—hard earned money—for a history of the world, and manage to squeeze the payments out o’ my wages, and then, all of a sudden, when half the price is paid, I’m to have my property taken from me without so much as a by your leave just because I’m two payments in arrears.”
“Read your contract,” said Theresa. “Every point is stipulated.”
“No wonder people get rich,” the man went on. His voice grew louder and louder, and he glanced angrily at Jason Philip, who at that moment rushed into the shop with his hat crushed and his trousers sprinkled with mud. “No wonder that people can buy houses and speculate in real estate. Yes, Schimmelweis, I call such things sharp practice, and I don’t give a damn for your contract. Everybody knows by this time what kind of business is done here—more like a man-trap—and that these here instalments are just a scheme to squeeze the workingman dry. First you talk to him about education, and then you suck his blood. It’s hell!”
“Pull yourself together, Wachsmuth!” Jason Philip cried sternly.
Wachsmuth picked up his cap, and slammed the shopdoor behind him.