garden space between the two buildings. The man swore terrible oaths, and the woman encouraged him.
About ten o’clock the next morning Mr. Paxson, from Solebury, drove up to the poorhouse. He talked quietly with the overseer and with the man’s wife. The little old woman bobbed up and down like a sparrow, trying to persuade Mr. Paxson about something. Soon the tall man was released. Mr. Paxson met him on the long hall, and the tall man stared with bitter hatred at that avenue of cells. “I need men like you,” Mr. Paxson said quietly, looking right at the tall man.
When they left the building, the man’s wife hurried up and grabbed her husband’s hand in a strong, almost manly gesture. David, watching nearby, thought: “I’ve never seen men and women like that.” Their minds and their bodies seemed to clash in midair, violently, as if a mighty gong should have sounded when they looked at each other. David watched them as they went to the car, and to his surprise he saw that Marcia Paxson was watching them, too.
The escaping couple looked straight ahead, grim people,clothed in purple fury, shining in the morning air like Venus in the dawn. Other people came to the poorhouse because of Mr. Crouthamel. They wept a little, sighed for their lost hopes, and soon fitted into the routine. For a few days the women cried over their husbands, who were undone through an alien agent; or the men felt disgraced that their wives finally fell into the poorhouse. But adjust they did. They did fit in. Within two weeks David could not tell the Crouthamel inmates from the regulars. Only the violent couple had fought against their fate, and they escaped.
In fact, Mr. Crouthamel’s vast theft would certainly have been forgotten had not a trivial incident thrown it boldly into the poorhouse like a ghostly shadow outlining an evil deed done at a distance. In checking Mr. Crouthamel’s papers it was found that a feeble-minded Dutchman from Quakertown, one Luther Detwiler, had paid $2.50 a week for eleven years in the belief that he was buying a cigar factory, which was, in fact, owned by a rich German in Reading. The enormity of this deception so preyed upon the public conscience that a Philadelphia newspaperman wrote the obscene story and flashed it across the country.
The next afternoon a photographer from Trenton came to see the crazy Dutchman and took his picture. Luther was pleased with the attention and explained where his factory was. He was careful to say that he happened to be in the poorhouse right now only because his wife was visiting in Delaware.
But that night after dinner the Dutchman began to brood about this factory which somehow or other he didn’t have, and the wife who was gone, and a feral melancholy possessed him. Somberly he rose and looked at the old men about him. He tried twice to explain to these men about his factory. Then he bowed his head and walked quietly to Door 5.
“He’s got a right to be sad,” a newcomer said. “What they did to him!”
“He ain’t sad,” an old-timer said. “He’s nuts.”
With no warning a chair crashed against Door 5. Toothless Tom blanched and said, “Somebody better get the guards.” As he spoke a teacup smashed through Luther’s window and clattered, with broken glass, to the areaway below.
Toothless Tom and David went down to Door 5. “You get away from here!” Luther screamed at Tom. Then, withan icy grip, he hauled David into the room and banged the door shut.
David saw that the room was a shambles. In the corner lay the broken chair. Glass was scattered about, and the bedclothes had been ripped into ragged strips.
The crazy Dutchman clasped David to him and moaned, “Oh, David! I did have that factory. I made lots of cigars. Good cigars!” His tortured brain collapsed and he bellowed, “I MADE CIGARS!” His hands twisted madly in the cigar-maker’s pattern. With a jagged chunk of wood from the chair he sliced away imaginary ends of Havana
About ten o’clock the next morning Mr. Paxson, from Solebury, drove up to the poorhouse. He talked quietly with the overseer and with the man’s wife. The little old woman bobbed up and down like a sparrow, trying to persuade Mr. Paxson about something. Soon the tall man was released. Mr. Paxson met him on the long hall, and the tall man stared with bitter hatred at that avenue of cells. “I need men like you,” Mr. Paxson said quietly, looking right at the tall man.
When they left the building, the man’s wife hurried up and grabbed her husband’s hand in a strong, almost manly gesture. David, watching nearby, thought: “I’ve never seen men and women like that.” Their minds and their bodies seemed to clash in midair, violently, as if a mighty gong should have sounded when they looked at each other. David watched them as they went to the car, and to his surprise he saw that Marcia Paxson was watching them, too.
The escaping couple looked straight ahead, grim people,clothed in purple fury, shining in the morning air like Venus in the dawn. Other people came to the poorhouse because of Mr. Crouthamel. They wept a little, sighed for their lost hopes, and soon fitted into the routine. For a few days the women cried over their husbands, who were undone through an alien agent; or the men felt disgraced that their wives finally fell into the poorhouse. But adjust they did. They did fit in. Within two weeks David could not tell the Crouthamel inmates from the regulars. Only the violent couple had fought against their fate, and they escaped.
In fact, Mr. Crouthamel’s vast theft would certainly have been forgotten had not a trivial incident thrown it boldly into the poorhouse like a ghostly shadow outlining an evil deed done at a distance. In checking Mr. Crouthamel’s papers it was found that a feeble-minded Dutchman from Quakertown, one Luther Detwiler, had paid $2.50 a week for eleven years in the belief that he was buying a cigar factory, which was, in fact, owned by a rich German in Reading. The enormity of this deception so preyed upon the public conscience that a Philadelphia newspaperman wrote the obscene story and flashed it across the country.
The next afternoon a photographer from Trenton came to see the crazy Dutchman and took his picture. Luther was pleased with the attention and explained where his factory was. He was careful to say that he happened to be in the poorhouse right now only because his wife was visiting in Delaware.
But that night after dinner the Dutchman began to brood about this factory which somehow or other he didn’t have, and the wife who was gone, and a feral melancholy possessed him. Somberly he rose and looked at the old men about him. He tried twice to explain to these men about his factory. Then he bowed his head and walked quietly to Door 5.
“He’s got a right to be sad,” a newcomer said. “What they did to him!”
“He ain’t sad,” an old-timer said. “He’s nuts.”
With no warning a chair crashed against Door 5. Toothless Tom blanched and said, “Somebody better get the guards.” As he spoke a teacup smashed through Luther’s window and clattered, with broken glass, to the areaway below.
Toothless Tom and David went down to Door 5. “You get away from here!” Luther screamed at Tom. Then, withan icy grip, he hauled David into the room and banged the door shut.
David saw that the room was a shambles. In the corner lay the broken chair. Glass was scattered about, and the bedclothes had been ripped into ragged strips.
The crazy Dutchman clasped David to him and moaned, “Oh, David! I did have that factory. I made lots of cigars. Good cigars!” His tortured brain collapsed and he bellowed, “I MADE CIGARS!” His hands twisted madly in the cigar-maker’s pattern. With a jagged chunk of wood from the chair he sliced away imaginary ends of Havana
Similar Books
