Page:Czecho-Slovak Student Life, Volume 18.djvu/12

HERE WAS only one person among Lurline Marko’s acquaintances who possessed the power to inspire her with terror, and that person was the Hottentot. No, Miss Marko was not a dweller in the far East; but rather, we would say, she was a fine specimen of Western civilization, born and raised near a Minnesota village. Still, as I have said, she lived in fear of one whom in her mind she dared to term “the Hottentot.”

When I first heard that name used, I was filled with curiosity even as you are now. The person so oddly designated was known in four or five cities as Mrs. Steve Kolbasa, a wealthy manager of a furniture factory, and the aunt of a rather important young man. This man was Gerald Benda, the orphan nephew of Mrs, Kolbasa’s husband.

For a few years after Lurline’s grandmother had sold their little country place and moved into the tiny white cottage on Third Street, the two of them lived in seclusion. Lurline had made no “hit” in high school, for she was country-bred, a little shy, and still under the impression that one went to school to learn. She liked all her classmates, but especially did she admire the debonaire, Lollie Burlik, the society princess who lived across the street.

It was a week after graduation—and Lurline’s nineteenth birthday—that brought Mrs. Kolbasa into her life. The furniture regent had bought her nephew a snug coupe. The vehicle was indeed destined for a noble task.

One day Gerald Benda swung his coupe around a corner with easy grace. He was about to pass in front of Lollie Burlik’s house, and that had to be done neatly. The next moment he was startled by an explosion somewhere beneath him. Oh, pshaw, he might have known it! Automatically he stopped the car and parked directly on the opposite side of the street from Lollie’s. Oh, well, what did he care even if she did see him? With similar reckless thoughts he leaped to the ground and viewed the right rear tire. There it was, flatter than the sole of his shoe!

He set about to mend the thing in an unwholesomely vehement style. And by some slip of his hand he cut his thumb—exactly where it bleeds the most.

Inside the white cottage in front of which Gerald was parking, the Markos were eating their lunch.

“Sue,” said Lurline to her grandmother, “there’s someone in front of the house using uncouth language. Wonder who it is.”

Take that apron off, my dear, and satisfy your curiosity. If it’s an agent, tell him we’re both insured, we own a piano, the library’s full, the pantry is well stocked, and no patent medicines allowed.” And Susan Marko, the only feminine relative that Lur-