It was not the girl, however, who claimed Bernritter’s attention, but a man—likewise a German—who was walking beside her and awkwardly playing the gallant.
The man was a comical specimen for a lover. He looked like a fall pippin balanced on a couple of toothpicks. An “Old Country” cap rested on the back of his head, there was a long pipe in his teeth, and he wore a California poppy in his buttonhole.
As he walked, he tried to take the girl’s hand, and more than once attempted to put his arm about her ample waist. The girl, laughing the while, slapped her suitor’s face and, finally, knocked the pipe out of his mouth.
There was humor in the situation, had Bernritter been in a mood to see it. But he was not. From the herr and the fraulein the super’s eyes wandered to the laboratory, near which was secured a horse, saddled, bridled, and with saddle-bags in place.
The horse was fresh from the corral. Bernritter knew it belonged to the Dutchman, and that the Dutchman was about to leave camp, and was taking his farewell of Frieda.
A glimmer shot into the super’s eye as a treacherous plan formed itself in his brain. Alert and resourceful at once, he stepped to the office door, called a passing Mexican, and told him to send Jacobs to the office immediately.
When Jacobs—a slender man with a hint of Jewish origin in his face—entered the office, a moment later, he found Bernritter smoking his cigar and sitting in front of his desk.
“You sent for me?” queried Jacobs, with an odd, furtive glance of the eyes.
“I did, Jacobs,” answered Bernritter. “Shut the door, pull a chair close up, and sit down.”