“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. Marian Nothafft’s eyes passed mechanically over the titles of a row of fiercely red pamphlets spread out on a table. She read: “The Battle that Decides,” “Modern Slaveholders,” “The Rights of the Poor,” “Christianity and Capitalism,” “The Crimes of the Bourgeoisie.” Although these catch-words meant nothing to her, she felt in her heart once more her old, long forgotten hatred against machines. XII “Fetch me a sandwich, Theresa,” Jason Philip commanded, “I’m hungry as a wolf.” “Didn’t you eat anything at the inn?” Theresa asked suspiciously. “I was at no such place.” Jason Philip’s eyes gleamed, and he shook his head like a lion. So Theresa went to fetch his sandwich. It was queer to observe how much distrust and contradiction she was able to express through the sloth of her movements. But her daughter Philippina was already hurrying down the stairs with the sandwich. At this moment Jason Philip became aware of his sister-in-law. “Ah, there you are, you shrinking flower,” he said lightly, and held out his pudgy hand. “Theresa will put you up in the little room under the store-room. You have a pleasant view of the river there.” Theresa handed him the bread. He sniffed at it, and frowned because it wasn’t thickly enough buttered. But he had not the courage to complain. He bit into it, and, with full cheeks, turned once more to Marian. “Well, that son of yours has disappeared again. A nice situation. Shouldn’t wonder if he ended in the penitentiary. The best thing would be to ship him off to America; but it isn’t clear to me how we’re to get hold of him at all. It was really premature to ask you to come.” “If only I knew what he’s living on,” Marian whispered, with repressed anguish.