CHAPTER II
THE HUMP
A few hours after he had started on his new job Fischerle was fully enlightened as to the desires and peculiarities of his master. On taking up their quarters for the night he was presented to the hotel porter as 'my friend and colleague'. Fortunately the porter recognized the open-handed Owner of a Library who had already spent a night in that hotel; otherwise both the gendeman and his colleague would have been thrown out. Fischerle took pains to follow what Kien was writing on the registration form. He was too small, he couldn't contrive to poke his nose into these matters. His fears were on account of the second registration form which the porter had ready for him. But Kien, who was making up in one night for the lack of delicacy of a lifetime, considered how difficult the little fellow would find it to write and included him on his own form under the heading 'accompanied by . . . '. He handed the second form back to the porter with the words, 'This is unnecessary'. Thus he spared Fischerle not only the difficulty of writing, but, more important still in his eyes, the humiliating admission of his status as a servant.
As soon as they reached their rooms upstairs, Kien took out the brown paper and began to smooth it out. 'True it's all crumpled,' he said, 'but we have no other.' Fischerle seized the occasion to make himself indispensable, and worked carefully over each sheet which his master regarded as "already perfected. 'I was to blame, with that slapping,' he declared. His success was the measure of the enviable nimbleness of his fingers. Next the paper was spread out over the floor in both rooms. Fischerle gambolled from side to side, lay flat down and crawled — a peculiar, squat, hump-backed reptile — from corner to corner. 'We'll soon have it all shipshape, that's nothing!' he panted again and again. Kien smiled, he was not accustomed to this cringing nor to the hump and rejoiced at the personal honour which the dwarf was showing him. The impending explanation however filled him with a certain anxiety. Possibly he overestimated the intelligence of the manikin, almost as old as he, who had lived countless years in exile without books. He might well misunderstand the task which was intended for him. Perhaps he would ask: 'Where are the books?' even before he had grasped where they were safely kept during the day. It would be best to leave him crawling about on the floor a little longer. Meanwhile some popular simile might occur to Kien with which he could enlighten this uneducated brain. Even the little fellow's fingers disquieted him. They were in constant motion; they kept on smoothing out the paper far too long. They were hungry, hungry fingers want food. They might demand the books, which Kien was determined no one should touch, no one at all. Also he feared to come into collision with the little fellow's thirst for education. He might reproach him, with some appearance of justice, for letting his books He fallow. How was he to defend himself? Fools rush in where wise men fear to tread. There was the fool already standing in front of him saying: 'All done!'
'Then please will you help me unpack the books!' said Kien blindly, and was astonished at his own boldness. To cut short any unwelcome questions he immediately lifted a packet out of his head and held it out to the little fellow. The latter managed to take it up cleverly in his long arms and said: 'So many! Where shall I put them down?' 'Many?' shouted Kien, indignantly. 'That isn't the thousandth part.'
'I get you. A tenth per cent. Do you want me to stand about here another year? I can't manage it much longer with all this to carry. Where shall I put them down?' 'On the paper. Begin in the corner over there, then we won't fall over them later on.'
Fischerle slid carefully over to the corner. He avoided any violent movement which would have endangered his burden. In the corner he knelt down, laid the packet carefully on the floor, and straightened its sides so that no irregularity should shock the eye. Kien had followed him. He was already holding out the next packet towards him: he distrusted the litde fellow, it seemed to him somehow as if he was being mocked. In Fischerle's hands the work went forward swimmingly. He took packet after packet, his nimbleness grew with practice. Between the piles he left always a few inches where he could conveniently insert his hands. He thought of everything, even of the repacking in the morning. He allowed only a moderate height to each pile and tested them when he had got so far by gendy passing the tip or his nose over them. Although he was quite absorbed in his measuring, he said every time: 'Beg pardon, sir!' Higher than his nose he would not let them be. Kien was doubtful: it seemed to him that if the piles were to be built thus low the available space would be used up too soon. He had no desire to sleep with half the library still in his head. But for the present he said nothing and let his famulus do as he wished. He had half taken him to his heart already. He forgave him the disdain contained jn his exclamation: 'So many!' He rejoiced to think of the moment when, the floor space available in both rooms being completely used up? he would look down at the little fellow with mild irony and ask: 'And now where?'
After an hour Fischerle was in the greatest difficulty on account of his hump. Twist and turn as he would he collided with books everywhere. Except for a narrow path from the bed in one room to the bed in the other, everything was evenly covered with books. Fischerle was in a sweat and no longer dared to pass the tip of his nose over the topmost layer of the piles of books. He tried to draw in his hump but couldn't manage it. This physical exertion was almost too much for him. He was so tired he felt like spitting on the books and going to sleep. But he carried on until, however much he tried, he couldn't discover the tiniest empty space and then crumpled up half dead. 'In all my born days I never see such a library,' he growled. Kien's smile spread over his entire face. 'You haven't seen half of it,' he said. Fischerle had not reckoned with this. "We'll finish the rest in the morning,' he asserted, threateningly. Kien felt caught out. He had boasted. In fact a good two-thirds of the books were already unloaded. What would the little man think of him if he found out. Accurate people do not like to be accused of exaggeration. He must take care to sleep to-morrow in a hotel where the rooms were smaller. He would give him smaller packets at a time, two packets made up one pile precisely, and if Fischerle, with the help of his nose, were to notice anything, he would say to him simply: 'People's noses are not always on the same level. There are many things you will have to learn from me.' He could not allow any more unpacking to-night, the little man was tired enough already. He must be permitted a well-earned rest. 'I respect your fatigue,' he said; "what we do for books, is well done. You can go to bed now. We will continue in the morning'. He treated him considerately, but as a servant. The work which he had just performed reduced him to that rank.
When Fischerle was in bed and had rested himself a little, he called out to Kien: 'Bad beds!' He felt so comfortable — in all his born days he had never lain on such a soft mattress — he had to say something about it.
Kien was in China; he was there every night before he fell asleep. The extraordinary happenings of the day gave his imaginings a different form. He conceived without an immediate revulsion the idea of a popularization of his learning. He felt that the dwarf understood him. He conceded that like-minded human beings might exist. If it were possible to infuse these with a little education, a little humanity, this would certainly be an achievement. The first step is always the hardest. Moreover no encouragement should be given to arbitrary action. Through daily contact with so vast a quantity of learning the little man's hunger for it would grow greater and greater; suddenly he would be caught secreting a book and trying to read it. This must not be allowed, it would be harmful to him, it would destroy what little intelligence he had. How much could the poor fellow possibly absorb? He would have to be prepared for it orally. There was no hurry for him to begin reading on his own. Years would pass before he would be fluent in Chinese. But he would become familiar with the ideas and the interpreters of the Chinese cultural world long ere this. To avtaken his interest in these things they must be associated with the experiences of every day. Under the title 'Mencius and Us* a very pretty essay might be put together. What would he be able to make of it? Kien recollected that the dwarf had just said something; what it was he did not know, but in any case he must still be awake.
'What have we to learn from Mencius?' he called loudly. That was a better title. It was clear from it at once that Mencius was a human being. A man of learning is naturally anxious to avoid gross misunderstandings.
'Bad beds, say I!' Fischerle called back even louder.
'Beds?'
'Yeh, bugs!'
'What! Go to sleep at once and let me have no more jokes! You have much to learn in the morning.'
'I tell you what, I've learnt quite enough to-day.'
'That's only an idea of yours. Go to sleep, I shall count up to three.'
'Sleep, indeed! And suppose someone steals the books and we're ruined. I'm not taking any risks. Do you suppose I shall sleep a wink? You may, seeing you re a rich man. Not me!'
Fischerle was really afraid of going to sleep. He was a man of habits. Should he dream he would be perfectly capable of stealing all Kien's money. In his sleep he had not the least idea what he was doing. A man dreams of the things which mean something to him. Fischerle was happiest rolling in heaps of bank-notes. When he got tired of rolling, and if he knew for dead certain that not one of his false friends was anywhere about, he would sit down on top of them and play a game of chess. There was an advantage in sitting up so high. He could do two things at once this way; he could sec a long way off anyone coming to steal them, and he could hold the chessboard. That was the way great men managed their affairs. With the right hand you pushed the pieces about, with the left you rubbed the dirt off your fingers on to the bank-notes. The trouble was there were too many of them. Say — millions. What should we do with all these millions! Giving them away wouldn't be a bad idea, but who could trust himself to do it? They'd only got to see when a small man had got anything, that lot, and they'd snatch it away. A small man wasn't allowed to get above himself. He'd got the money alright, but he mustn't use it. What had he got to be sitting up there for, they'd say. It's all very well, but where was a small man to put all those millions when he hadn't anywhere to keep them? An operation would be the sensible thing. Dangle a million in front of the famous surgeon's nose. Sir, you said, cut off my hump and that's for you. For a million a man would become an artist. Once the hump had gone, you said: dear sir, the million was a forgery, but here's a couple of thou'. The man might even thank you. The hump was burnt. Now you might walk straight for the rest of your life. But a sensible person wasn't such a fool. He took his millions, rolled up all the banknotes small, and made a new hump out of them. He put it on. Not a soul noticed anything. He knew he was straight; people thought he was a poor cripple. He knew he was a millionaire; people thought he was a poor devil. When he went to bed he pushed the hump round on to his stomach. Great God, he'd love to sleep on his back, just once.
At this point Fischerle rolled over and lay on his hump and was thankful for the pain which jerked him out of his dozing. This mustn't go on he said to himself; all of a sudden he'd be dreaming that the heaps of money were just over there, he'd get up to fetch them and a fine mess he'd be in then. As though the whole lot didn't belong to him, anyway. The police were quite unnecessary. He could do without their interference. He'd earn it all honestly. The man in the other room was an idiot, the man in this one had got a head on his shoulders. Who was going to have the money in the end?
Fischerle might well argue with himself. Stealing had become a habit with him. For a little while he hadn't been stealing because where he lived there was nothing to steal. He didn't take part in expeditions far afield as the police had their eye on him. He could be too easily identified. Policemen's zeal for their duty knew no limits. Half the night he lay awake, his eyes forcibly held open, his hands clenched in the most complicated fashion. He expelled the heaps of money from his mind. Instead he went through all the rough passages and hard words he had ever experienced in police stations. Were such things necessary? And on top of it all they took away everything you possessed. You never saw a penny of it again. That wasn't stealing! When their insults ceased to be effective and he was fed to the back teeth with the police and already had one arm hanging out of bed, he fell back on some games of chess. They were interesting enough to keep him firmly fixed in bed; but his arm remained outside, ready to pounce. He played more cautiously than usual, pausing before some moves to think for a ridiculously long time. His opponent was a world champion. He dictated the moves to him proudly. Slightly bewildered by the obedience of the champion he exchanged him for another one: this one too put up with a great deal. Fischerle was playing, in fact, for both of them. The opponent could think of no better moves than those dictated to him by Fischerle, nodded his head gratefully and was beaten hollow in spite of it. The scene repeated itself several times until Fischerle said: 'I won't play with such half-wits,' and stretched his legs out of bed. Then he exclaimed: 'A world champion? Where is there a world champion; There isn't any world champion here!'
To make sure, he got up and looked round the room. As soon as they won the world's title people simply went and hid themselves. He could find no one. All the same he could have sworn the world champion was sitting on the bed playing chess with him. Surely he couldn't be hiding in the next room? Now don't you worry. Fischerlc would soon find him. Calm as calm, he looked through the next room; the room was empty. He opened the door of the wardrobe and made a pounce with his hand, no chess player would escape him. He moved very softly, who wouldn't? Why should that long creature with the books be disturbed in his sleep only because Fischerlc had to track down his enemy? Quite possibly the champion wasn't there at all, and for a mere whim he was throwing his beautiful job away. Under the bed he grazed over every inch with the tip of his nose. It was a long time since he'd been back under any bed and it reminded him of the old days at home. As he crawled out his eyes rested on a coat folded up over a chair. Then it occurred to him how greedy world champions always were for money, they could never get enough; to win the title from them one had to put down heaps of money in cash, just like that, on the table; there was no doubt the fellow was after the money, and was lurking about somewhere near the wallet. He might not have found it yet, it ought to be saved from him; a creature like that could manage anything. To-morrow the money'd be gone and the flagpole would think Fischerle took it. But you couldn't deceive him. With his long arms he stretched for the wallet from below, pulled it out and withdrew himself under the bed. He might have crawled right out, but why should he? The world champion was larger and stronger than he, sure as fate he was standing behind that chair, lurking for the money, and would knock Fischerle out because he'd got in first. By this skilful manœuvre no one noticed anything. Let the dirty swindler stay where he was. Nobody asked him to come. He could scram. That would be best. Who wanted him?
Soon Fischerle had forgotten him. In his hiding place right at the back under the bed he counted over the beautiful new notes, just for the pleasure of it. He remembered exactly how many there were. As soon as he had done he started again at the beginning. Fischerle is off now to a far country, to America. There he goes up to the world champion Capablanca, and says: 'I've been looking for you!' puts down his caution money and plays until the fellow is beaten hollow. On the next day Fischerle's picture is in all the papers. He does pretty well out of it all. At home, under the Stars of Heaven, that lot wouldn t believe their eyes, his wife, the whore, begins to howl and yell if she'd only known it she would have let him play all he wanted; the others shut her up with a couple of smacks — serve her right — that's what happens when a woman won't bother to learn about the game. Women'll be the end of men. If he'd stayed at home, he'd never have made good. A man must cut loose, that's the whole secret. None but the brave deserve to be world champion. And people have the nerve to say Jews aren't brave. The reporters ask him who he is. Not a soul knows him. He doesn't look like an American. There are Jews everywhere. But where does this Jew come from, who's rolled in triumph over Capablanca? For the first day he'll let people guess. The papers would like to tell their readers, but they don't know. Everywhere the headlines read: 'Mystery of the new World Champion.' The police become interested, naturally. They want to lock him up again. No, no, gentlemen, not so fast this time; now he throws the money about and the police are honoured to release him at once. On the second day, a round hundred reporters turn up. Each one promises him, shall we say, a thousand dollars cash down if he'll say something. Fischerle says not a word. The papers begin to lie. What else are they to do? The readers won't wait any longer. Fischerle sits in a mammoth hotel with one of those luxury cocktail bars, like on a giant liner. The head waiter brings the loveliest ladies to his table, not tarts mind you, millionairesses with a personal interest in him. He thanks them politely, but hasn't time, later perhaps ... And why hasn't he time? Because he's reading all the lies about him in all the papers. It takes all day. How's he to get through it? Every minute he's interrupted. Press photographers ask for a moment of his time. 'But gentlemen, a hump . . . !' he protests. 'A world champion is a world champion, honoured Mr. Fischerle. The hump is quite immaterial.' They photograph him right and left, before and behind. "Why don't you retouch it,' he suggests, 'take the hump out. Then you'll have a nice picture for your paper.' 'Just as you please, most honoured world champion!' But really, where's he had his eyes? His picture is everywhere, without a hump. It's gone. He hasn't one. But ne worries a bit about his size. He calls the head waiter and points to a paper. 'A bad picture, what?' he asks. The head waiter says: 'WeIl.' In America people speak English. He finds the picture excellent. 'But it's only the head,' he says. That's right too. 'You can go now,' says Fischerle and tips him a hundred dollars. In this picture he might be a fully grown man. No one would notice he was undersized. He loses his interest in the articles. He can't be bothered to read all this in English. He only understands 'Well!' Later on he has all the latest editions of the papers brought to him and looks hard at all his pictures. His head is everywhere. His nose is a bit long, that's true; can't help his nose. From a child up he's been all for chess. He might have taken some other idea into his head, football or swimming or boxing. But not he. It's a bit of luck really. If he were a boxing champion, now, he'd have to be photographed half naked. Everyone would laugh at him and he'd get nothing out of it. On the next day at least a thousand reporters turn up. 'Gentlemen,' he says, 'I'm surprised to find myself called Fischerle everywhere. My name is Fischer. I trust that you will have this error rectified.' They promise they will. Then they all kneel down in front of him — how small men are — and implore him to say something at last. They'll be thrown out, they'll lose their jobs, they cry, if they get nothing out of him to-day. My sorrow, he thinks, nothing for nothing, he gave the head waiter a hundred dollars, but he won't give the reporters anything. 'What's your bid, gentlemen?' he cries boldly. A thousand dollars, shouts one. Cheek, screams another, ten thousand! A third takes him by the hand and whispers: a hundred thousand, Mr. Fischer. People throw money about like nothing. He stops his ears. Until they get into millions he won't even listen to them. The reporters go mad and begin tearing each other's hair, each one wants to give more than the other; all this fuss; auctioneering his private life! One goes up to five millions, and all at once there is absolute quiet. Not one dares offer more. World Champion Fischer takes his fingers out of his ears and declares: 'I will now say something, gentlemen. What good will it do me to ruin you? None. How many of you are there? A thousand. Let each one of you give me ten thousand and I'll tell you all. Then I shall have ten millions and not one of you will be ruined. Agreed?' They fall on his neck and he's a made man. Then he clambers up on a chair, he doesn't really need to any more but he does it all the same, and tells them the simple truth. As a world champion, he fell from Heaven. It takes a good hour to convince them. He was unhappily married. His wife, a Capitalist, fell into evil ways, she was — as they used to call it in his home, the Stars of Heaven — a whore.' She wanted him to take money from her. He didn't know any way out. If he wouldn't take any, she used to say, she'd murder him. He was forced to do it. He had yielded to her blackmail and kept the money for her. Twenty long years he had to endure this. In the end he was fed up. One dav he demanded categorically that she should stop or he'd become chess champion of the world. She cried, but she wouldn't stop. She was too much accustomed to doing nothing, to having fine clothes and lovely clean-shaven gentlemen. He was sorry for her but a man must keep his word. He goes straight from the Stars of Heaven to the United States, finishes off Capablanca, and here he is! The reporters rave about him. So does he. He founds a charity. He will pay a Stipendium to every cafe in the world. In return the proprietors must undertake to put up on their walls every game played by the world champion. Any person defacing the notices will be prosecuted. Every individual person can thus convince himself that the world champion is a better player than he is. Otherwise some swindler may suddenly pop up, a dwarf or even a cripple, and brag he plays better. People may not think of checking up the cripple's moves. They are capable of believing him simply because he's a good liar. Things like that must stop. On each wall is a placard. The cheat makes one wrong move, everyone looks at the placard and who then will blush to the very hump on his miserable back. The crook! Moreover the proprietor must undertake to fetch him a sock on the jaw for saying things about the world champion. Let him challenge him openly if he's got the money. Fischerle will put down a million for this foundation. He's not mean. He'll send a million to his wife so she needn't go on the streets any more. In return she'll give it him in writing that she won't come to America and will keep mum about his former dealings with the police. Fischer's going to marry a millionairess. This will reimburse him for his losses. He'll have new suits made at the best possible tailor so that his wife'll notice nothing. À gigantic palace will be built with real castles, knights, pawns, just as it ought to be. The servants are in livery; in thirty vast halls Fischer plays night and day thirty simultaneous games of chess with living pieces which he has only to command. All he has to do is to speak and his slaves move wherever he tells them. Challengers come from all the chief countries of the world, poor devils who want to learn something from him. Many sell their coats and shoes to pay for the long journey. He receives them with hospitality, gives them a good meal, with soup, a sweet and two veg, and pretty often a nice grilled steak instead of a cut from the joint. Anyone can be beaten by him once. He asks nothing in return for his kindness. Only that each one should write his name in the visitors' book on leaving and categorically assert that he, Fischer, is the world champion. He defends his tide. While he does so his new wife goes out riding in her car. Once a week he goes with her. In the castle all the chandeliers are put out, lighting alone costs him a fortune. On the door he pins up a notice: 'Back soon. Fischer: World Champion.' He does not stay out two hours, but visitors are queueing up like in the war when he gets back. 'What are you queuing for.?' asks a passer-by. 'What, don't you know? You must be a stranger here.' Out of pity the others tell him who it is that lives here. So that he shall understand each one tells him singly, then they all shout in a chorus: 'Chess Champion of the World, Fischer, is giving alms to-day.' The stranger is struck dumb. After an hour he finds his voice again. 'Then this is his reception day?' That is just what the natives have been waiting for. 'To-day is not a reception day or there would be far more people.' Now all of them begin talking at once. 'Where is he? The castle is dark!' 'With his wife in the car. This is his second wife. The first was only a simple Capitalist. The second is a millionairess. The car belongs to him. It isn't just a taxi. He had it built specially.' What they are saying is the simple truth. He sits in his car, it suits him very well. It is a little too small for his wife who has to crouch all the time. But in return she's allowed to ride with him. At other times she has her own. He doesn't go out in hers. It's much too big for him. But his was the more expensive. The factory made his car specially. He feels inside it just as if he were under the bed. Looking out of the windows is too boring. He shuts his eyes tight. Not a thing moves. Under the bed he is perfectly at home. He hears his wife's voice from above. He's fed up with her, what does she mean to him; She doesn't understand a thing about chess. The man is saying something too. Is he a player? He's obviously intelligent. Wait, now, wait; why should he wait? What's waiting to him? That man up there is talking good German. He's a professional man, sure to be a secret champion. These people are afraid of being recognized. It's with them like it is with crowned heads. They have to come to women incognito. That man's a world champion for sure, not just an ordinary champion! He must challenge him. He can't wait longer. His head bursts with good moves. He'll beat him into a cocked hat!
Fischerle crept swiftly and silently from under the bed, and reared himself on his crooked legs. They'd gone to sleep; he stumbled and clutched at the bedstead. The woman had vanished, all the better, she'd leave him in peace. A lanky stranger was lying alone on the bed, you might think he was asleep. Fischerle tapped him on the shoulder and asked loudly: 'Do you play chess ?' The stranger was really asleep. He must be shaken awake. Fischerle was about to grasp him with both hands by the shoulders when he noticed that he was holding something in his left hand. A little packet, it was in the way, throw it down Fischerle ! He flung his left arm about but his hand refused to let go. What's all this? Will you or won't you? he screamed. His hand clutched fast. It clung to the packet as if it were a conquered queen. He looked at it closer. The packet was a bundle of banknotes. Why should he throw them away? He could do with them, he was only a poor devil. Perhaps they belonged to the stranger? He was still asleep. But they belonged to Fischerle, because he was a millionaire. How did this person get here? A visitor? He might want to challenge him? People should read the notice on the entrance gate. A world champion and he couldn't even go for a quiet spin in his car? The stranger had a familiar look. A visitor from the Stars of Heaven? That wasn't a bad idea. Why, this was the chap in the book racket. What did he want here, book racket, book racket...? He used to be in his service once. First he had to spread out brown paper on the floor and then ...
Fischerle grew even more crooked with laughing. While laughing he woke up completely. He was standing in an hotel bedroom, he ought to be sleeping next door, he had stolen the money. Quickly, off with it. He must get to America. He ran two or three steps in the direction of the door. Why did he laugh so loud? Perhaps he had waked up the book racket. He slipped back to the bed and made sure he was still asleep. The creature would go to the police. He wasn't that mad; he'd go to the police. He took the same steps in the direction of the door; this time he walked instead of running. How was he to get out of the hotel? The room was on the third floor. He was bound to wake the porter. The police would watch him in the morning, even before he could get into a train. Why would they catch him? Because of his hump. His long fingers fondled it with repulsion. He wouldn't be locked up again. Those swine took his chessboard away. He had to touch the pieces or he got no pleasure out of the game. They forced him to play in his head. Flesh and blood couldn't stand that. He must make his fortune. He could do the book racket in. Jews don't do things like that. What would he do him in with? He could force him to give his word not to go to the police. 'Your word or your life!' he'd say to him. The creature was sure to be a coward. He d give his word. But who could rely on such an idiot? Anyone could do what they liked with him. He wouldn't break his word anyway; he'd break it from pure silliness. Silly, Fischerle had got all the money in his hand. America was a wash-out. No, he'd cut and run for it. Let them find him if they could. If they couldn't then he'd become chess champion of the world in America. If they could, he'd hang himself. A pleasure. What the devil... He couldn't make a go of it. He hadn't got a neck. Once he hanged himself by his leg but they cut him down. You didn't catch him hanging himself by the other leg. No!
Between the bed and the door Fischerle racked his brains for a solution. He was in desperation over his rotten luck. He could have cried out loud. But he mustn't for fear of waking the creature. It might be weeks before he got another chance. Weeks, weeks — he'd waited twenty years already! One foot in America and the other in a noose. Then jet a fellow try and make up his mind. The American leg took a step forward, the hanged one a step back. What a filthy trick to play! He beat his hump, sticking the packet of notes between his legs. The hump was the root of all the trouble. Let it be hurt. It deserved to be hurt. If he didn't beat it he'd have to cry out loud. If he cried out loud, America was dead and buried.
Exactly in the middle between bed and door Fischerle stood rooted to a spot and beat his hump. Like whip-handles he raised his arms alternately and brought down his fingers, five double-knotted lashes, over his shoulders on to his hump. It did not budge. A pitiless mountain, it rose above the low foothills of his shoulders, proud in its rocky hardness. It didn't even scream, 'I've had enough!' It was silent. Fischerle got into his stride. He saw the hump could take it. He prepared for a long drawn ordeal. It wasn't a matter of expressing his anger but of seeing that the blows struck home. His long arms were much too short for him. He had to make do with them, though. The blows fell with regularity. Fischerle gasped. He needed music for this. There was a piano at the Stars of Heaven. He'd make his own music. His breath gave out; he sang. His voice sounded sharp and shrill with excitement. 'That'll teach you —that'll teach you! He beat the brute black and blue. Let it go to the police if it liked! Before each blow he thought: 'Come down you carrion!' The carrion didn't budge. Fischerle was running with sweat. His arms ached, his fingers were limp and tired. He persevered, he was patient, he swore, the hump was at its last gasp. Out of sheer spite, it pretended it didn't care. Fischerle knew it of old. He would look it in the face. He twisted his head round so as to leer in scorn at his enemy. So that was it, it was hiding — you coward — you abortion — a knife! a knife! he'd stab it dead, where was a knife? Fischerle frothed at the mouth, big tears gushed out of his eyes, he cried because he had no knife, he cried because the abortion wouldn't even answer him. The strength of his arms forsook him altogether. He crumpled up, an empty sack. It was all over, he'd hang himself. The money rolled to the floor.
Suddenly Fischerle leapt up again and yelled: 'Checkmate!'
Kien was dreaming most of the time about falling books and trying to catch them with his body. He was as thin as a darning needle; to left and right the rarest books were cascading down; now the floor itself gave way and he woke up. Where are they, he whimpered, where are they? Fischerle had beaten the abortion, he picked up the bundle of notes at his feet, went up to the bed and said: 'Tell you what, you can talk of luck!'
'The books, the books!' Kien groaned.
'All of them saved. Here's the money. You've got a treasure in me.'
'Saved — I dreamt '
"Dreaming were you? And I was being beaten up.'
"Then there was someone here!' Kien leapt up. "We must go over the books at once!'
'Don't upset yourself. I heard him at once. He hadn't even got in through the door. I crept into this room under your bed to see what he was up to. What do you think he was after? Money. He puts out his hand. I grab hold of him by it. He hits out at me, I hit back. He begs for mercy, I have none. He wants to go to America, I won't let him go. Do you think he touched one of the books? Not one. He had a head on his shoulders. But he was an ass all the same. In all his bom days he'd never have got to America. Do you know where he'll have got to? Between ourselves, to the police court. He's off now.'
'What did he look like?' asked Kien. He wanted to show his gratitude to the little fellow for so much vigilance. He was not in the least interested in the burglar.
'What shall I say? He was a cripple like me. I could have sworn a good chess player too. A poor devil.'
'Well, let him go,' said Kien, and cast an affectionate—or so he meant it — glance at the dwarf. Then both went back to bed.