But that evening, while Lieders was down town (occupied, had she
known it, with a codicil to his will), she went over to the Olsens
and found out all Carl could tell her about the trouble in the shop.
And it was she that made the excuse of marketing to go out
the next day, that she might see the rich widow on the hill
who was talking about a china closet, and Judge Trevor, who had
asked the price of a mantel, and Mr. Martin, who had looked
at sideboards (all this information came from honest Carl);
and who proposed to them that they order such furniture of the best
cabinet-maker in the country, now setting up on his own account.
He, simple as a baby for all his doggedness, thought that they
came because of his fame as a workman, and felt a glow of pride,
particularly as (having been prepared by the wife, who said,
"You see it don't make so much difference with my Kurt 'bout
de prize, if so he can get the furniture like he wants it,
and he always know of the best in the old country") they all
were duly humble. He accepted a few orders and went to work
with a will; he would show them what the old man could do.
But it was only a temporary gleam; in a little while he grew
homesick for the shop, for the sawdust floor and the familiar
smell of oil, and the picture of Lossing flitting in and out.
He missed the careless young workmen at whom he had grumbled,
he missed the whir of machinery, and the consciousness
of rush and hurry accented by the cars on the track outside.
In short, he missed the feeling of being part of a great whole.
At home, in his cosey little improvised shop, there was none
to dispute him, but there was none to obey him either.
He grew deathly tired of it all. He got into the habit
of walking around the shops at night, prowling about his
old haunts like a cat. Once the night watchman saw him.