Niels Heinrich see-sawed on his chair. For many days his throat had been on fire. He was sick of his very teeth and hands. He wanted to grasp something, and hold it and crush it in his fist—something smooth and warm, something that had life and begged for life. He hated all things else, all hours, all ways.
“A ten and a ace o’ diamonds,” he heard his mother say, “the king o’ clubs and the jack o’ spades—that don’t mean nothing good. Then another ten and a grey woman”—consternation was on her face—“you ain’t going to do nothing awful, boy?”
“Aw, don’t get crazy, ol’ woman,” Niels Heinrich snarled at her. “You’d make a dog laugh.” He frowned, and said with assumed indifference, “Look and see if the cards say something about a Jew wench.”
The widow Engelschall shook her head in astonishment. “No, my boy, nothing like that.” She turned the cards again. “No. Another ten and a queen o’ hearts—that might mean a money order. Lord love us—three more queens. You always was a great one for the women. And that reminds me that red Hetty asked after you to-day. She wanted to know if you’d come to the Pit to-night.”
Niels Heinrich answered: “Gee, I just kicked her out a day or two ago. Her memory must be frozen. Gee!” He leaned back and see-sawed again. “Aw, well, if you can’t tell me nothing pleasant, I’ll take back my fiver.”
“It’s coming, my boy, it’s coming,” the old woman said soothingly. She shuffled the cards again. “Have patience. We’ll get that business with the Jew wench yet.”
Niels Heinrich stared into emptiness. Wherever he looked he had seen the same thing for days and days—a young, smooth neck, two young, smooth shoulders, two young, smooth breasts; and all these were strange, of a strange race, and filled with a strange sweet blood. And he felt that if he could not grasp these, grasp them and smell and taste, he would die the death of a dog. He got up and forced himself to a careless gesture. “You can stop,” he said. “It’s all a damn’ swindle. You can keep the tip too. I don’t give a damn.” He passed his stick across the cards, jumbled them together, and went out.
The widow Engelschall, left alone, shook her head. The ambition of her calling stirred in her. She shuffled and laid down the cards anew. “We’ll get it yet,” she murmured, “we’ll get it yet....”