A few doors off the dwarf was waiting for him. He handed his briefcase back to him. "The paper's there too,' he said, 'I'll show you the kind of man I am.' In his distress Kien had forgotten that a person called Fischerle existed in the world. He was all the more overcome by this incredible proof of his devotion. 'The paper too,' he faltered, 'how can I thank you ... ' He had not mistaken his man. 'That's nothing,' declared the little fellow. 'Now will you kindly step in here with me.' Kien obeyed, he was deeply moved and would gladly have embraced the little man. 'Do you know what a reward is?' asked the dwarf as soon as they were inside a porch hidden from passers-by. 'You must know what that is. Ten per cent. In there they are killing each other, men and women, and I've got it.' He drew out Kien's wallet and handed it over to him like a ceremonial presentation. 'I'm not a fool! I'm not going to be locked up to save their throats.' Since his most precious possessions had been in danger, Kien had forgotten all about the money too. He laughed aloud at so much conscientiousness, took the wallet back mainly because he was so pleased with Fischerle and repeated: 'How can I thank you! How can I thank you!' 'Ten per cent,' said the dwarf. Kien plunged into the packet of notes and offered a large portion to Fischerle. 'You count first of all,' he yelled. 'Business is business. All of a sudden you'll be saying I robbed you.' It was all very well for Kien to count. Had he an idea how much there had been before? FiScherle on the other hand knew exactly how many notes he had already set aside. His demand that Kien should count referred to the reward alone. But to please him Kien counted it all carefully through. When for the second time to-day, he reached the figure sixty, Fischerle saw himself locked up. He decided to make off at once — for this contingency he had already extracted his own reward — but quickly he tried one last attempt. 'There you are, it's all safe!' 'Of course,' said Kien, pleased not to have to do any more counting. 'Count out the reward now and we're quits.' Kien began again and got as far as nine, he would have gone on counting forever. 'Stop! Ten per cent!' cried Fischerle. He knew exactly how much there had been in all. While he was waiting for Kien he had swiftly and thoroughly been through the wallet.
When the deal was finished, he gave Kien his hand, looked sadly up at him and said: 'You ought to know what I've done for you! It s all over with the Stars of Heaven for me. You don't think I can ever go in there again, do you? They'd find all this money on me and kill mo dead. Because where does Fischerle get the money from? And how am I to tell them where I got it from? If I say I got it from the gentleman in the book racket they'll smash me to smithereens and steal the money out of my pockets while I lie there. If I say nothing they'll take it from me while I'm still alive. You see how it is, if Fischerle lives, then he's nothing left to live for, and if he dies, well he's dead. That's what you get for being a friend.' He was still hoping for a tip.
Kien felt obliged to help this person, the first worthy object he had found in his life, to a better and more dignified existence. 'I am not a tradesman, I am a man of learning and a librarian,' he said and bowed condescendingly to die dwarf. 'You may enter my service and I will look after you.
'Like a father,' completed the little fellow. 'Just as I thought. Very well, off we go!' He marched boldly out. Kien ambled after him. He cast about for work to give to his new famulus. A friend must never suspect that he is being given presents. He could help him in the evenings to unload and pile up the books.
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 ta
ken 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?
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