"Well, if it's funny, out with it, but if it isn't--"
"It's kind o' funny that I should be tellin' at all."
"To me, you mean?"
"Yes!"
"That's easy. You trust me; that's the reason," he explained jocularly.
"Do I? How do you know?"
"Oh, I'm a wise old know-it-all. Which is certainly a nice bunch of
conceit, isn't it?"
"No," she denied good-humoredly.
Without pretense of any sort, and completely at her ease sitting there
on the couch only a yard or two from him, she gave Nielsen a few points
in her knowledge of past years. Briefly, she laid claim to having lived
nearly all her life with adopted parents, from whom, thanks to their
continued selfishness and maltreatment, she had run away about a year
ago. These people had once informed her that her father had married some
woman of position in Bohemia, where Erna was born, and that, having
squandered her money, he had disappeared for good. Her mother had died
in giving birth to her, and her adopted parents, related to him as
cousins, had received her indirectly through some friends of her
father's, as well as money, through various mysterious channels, up to
her sixth year. The remittances stopped suddenly, and she was left a
beggar on their hands, a fact of which they were often careful to remind
her. At the age of twelve or thirteen, Erna had hunted for and found a
situation, and later others, and had been able to pay some sort of board
through the intervening years. But her "parents," who had five children
of their own, despised her and maltreated her accordingly, as did the
children, guided by the elders' precepts. Only her strength of body and
endowed pugnaciousness had saved her from greater maltreatment.
"And this you call a funny story?" demanded Nielsen, stopping her.
"There's nothing so very sad in it," she declared stubbornly.
"There isn't?"
"No."
His admiration for her developed. Erna certainly possessed sterling
qualities.
"But I haven't finished," she interposed.
"Never mind, Erna. I've heard enough."
"You haven't heard why I quit my 'parents'."
"I don't have to," he tried to stop her.
"There's only a little to it."
"Well?"
"They tried to sell me."
"What?"
"Just what I said."
"What do you mean?"
"They tried to sell me to an old admirer o' mine in Paterson."
"You must be crazy, child."
"No more'n you," she insisted. "The man was all ready with his money
an'--"
"But this is impossible," he interrupted.
"No, it isn't. I ought to know. It made me jump the track."
"That's how you ran away?"
"Yes."
"A year ago?"
"Yes. It was the last straw. They'd tried the same game twice before. I
was through."
Nielsen eyed her in sympathy. He had not credited the whole of her
story, incoherent and almost imaginary as some of its details sounded,
but the climax had moved him deeply. He was not as superficial as his
outward demeanor might indicate. But he was still a diplomat, and
knowing Erna's nature better than ever now, did not offer her open
sympathy. Instead, he questioned: "So you wandered around New York
looking for jobs?"
"Yes."
"Till you landed at Landsmann's?"
"Oh no, I had two other jobs before that."
"Where?"
"At other bakeries, but I was fired."
"For--for sassing back?" he asked, smiling.
"Yes, just as I sass old Landsmann."