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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Some day I may want to go home and think of introducing Augusta Kunkel!" "You are wrong there," she had replied with conviction, "Augusta has possibilities. She has good eyes, her voice is low, her English is far better than you might expect, and, best of all, she's tall and slender.
Symes I can run the joint, give you two bits out of every dollar, and still make money." Symes scarcely heard what she said for looking at her face. It seemed transformed by cupidity, a kind of mean penuriousness which he had observed in the faces of persons of small interests, but never to such a degree. "She's money mad," Grandmother Kunkel had said; the old woman was right.
"She's the waitress here." "Downstairs? In this hotel?" Augusta Kunkel nodded. "I don't blame him," Dr. Harpe replied bluntly, "I saw her at supper. She's a peach!" "She's the belle of Crowheart," admitted the girl reluctantly. "And who is he? What's his name?" The girl hesitated but as though yielding to a stronger will than her own, she whimpered: "Symes Andy P. Symes."
She looked like the American-born daughter of Swedish or Norwegian emigrants and her large-knuckled hands, too, bespoke the peasant strain. "Quit it, Niobe, and tell me your name." The girl raised her tearful eyes. "Kunkel Augusta Kunkel." "Oh, German?" The girl nodded. "Well, Miss Kunkel" she suppressed a smile "tell me your troubles and perhaps you'll feel better."
She caught sight of the girl's tear-stained face and stepped quickly into the room. "Why, Gussie." She laid her arm about her shoulder. "What's the matter?" Augusta Kunkel drew away with frank hostility in her brown eyes and answered: "Nothing's the matter I'm tired, that's all." Though she flushed at the rebuff, she murmured gently: "I'm sorry, Gussie." Turning to Dr.
Harpe standing at the window of her new office on the second floor of the hotel smiled to herself as she saw the chairs going inside which served equally well for funerals or for social functions. The match, she felt, was really of her making. "You've got to do it," she had told him. "You've simply got to do it." He had come to see her at Augusta's insistence. "But!" he had groaned; "a Kunkel!
"It's a pretty good article in camp," said Mr. Symes desperately to keep the ball rolling. The guests shrieked with mirthless laughter at the suggestion of rough camp life. "Gosh! me and Gus was weaned and raised on bean soup and liverwurst," interjected Adolph Kunkel in the lull which followed, and immediately squirmed under Mrs. Symes's blazing eyes.
In his insane fury he pulled her to her feet by the shoulders of her loose-cut coat where she stood looking at him uncertainly, her faded eyes set in a gray mask. "See here, Mr. Symes, see here " she said in a kind of vague belligerence. Symes pushed her toward the door as Adolph Kunkel passed. "Will you go?" Symes shouted. She turned on the sidewalk and faced him. The gray mask wore a sneer.
Perhaps you don't know but I'm one of the Symes of Maine. Great-grandfather a personal friend of Alexander Hamilton's, and all that. My family don't expect much of me since I'm the black sheep, but," a dull red had surged over his face, "they expect something better of me than a Kunkel!" She had shrugged her shoulders. "Suit yourself, I'm only telling you how it looks to me.
A function of the Commune when Madame Guillotine presided must have been a frothy and frivolous affair compared to the beginning of this dinner. Adolph Kunkel, who had attached himself to Dr. Harpe to the extent of walking within four feet of her side, darted from line and pulled out the nearest chair at the table.
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