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Updated: June 8, 2025
Kurt's problem was to understand himself. His great fight was with his own soul. His material difficulties and his despairing love had suddenly been transformed, so that they had lent his spirit wings. How many poor boys and girls in America must be helplessly divided between parents and country!
No one in it could ever catch him, of that Kurt was sure. Suddenly a powerful puff of air, like a blast of wind, seemed to lift him. At the same instant a dazzling, blinding, yellow blaze illuminated the whole scene. The solid earth seemed to rock under Kurt's flying feet, and then a terrific roar appalled him.
Kurt's voice, however, was the loudest and he got the lead in telling about Lippo's obstinacy. "Lippo is right," the uncle decided. "One must finish what one has begun. This is a splendid principle and ought to be followed. Lippo has inherited this from his god-father and so he shall also have his help. Come Lippo, we'll sit down and finish the song to the last word."
"Alona" was written, almost scribbled, on the cover. In Kurt's handwriting. She hadn't seen him in weeks, not since he began playing regularly in the band. She couldn't help picturing him the last time he was in her car, brushing back his long hair and scratching his hand in that nervous way of his. "You're breaking up with me?" he asked, staring vaguely at the floor-mat. She had nodded.
"But you cried out you pulled me away!" exclaimed Kurt. "That was because I was afraid you'd kill him," she replied. Kurt swerved his glance, for an instant, to her face. It was at once flushed and pale, with the deep blue of downcast eyes shadowy through her long lashes, exceedingly sweet and beautiful to Kurt's sight. He bent his glance again to the road ahead.
All she had been able to do was to beg Bruno, whatever happened, not to let his anger become his master. Sooner than the mother had expected Kurt's steps could be heard hurriedly running into the house followed by a loud call for her. "Here I am, Kurt," sounded calmly from the living-room, where his mother had finally settled down after her tasks, beside Mäzli's chair.
Ashe made a deliberate process of chewing and swallowing before he replied. "Naturally." His tone reduced whatever had happened to Hardy to a matter-of-fact proceeding far removed from Kurt's implied melodrama. "He's smashed up ... kaput...." Kurt's accent, slight in the beginning, was thickening. "Tortured...." Ashe regarded him levelly. "You aren't on Hardy's run, are you?"
Flopping and crawling like a crippled chicken, he got out of sight below. Kurt's shot was a starter for Olsen's men. Four or five of the shot-guns boomed at once; then the second barrels were discharged, along with a sharper cracking of small arms. Pandemonium broke loose in Glidden's gang. No doubt, at least, of the effectiveness of the shot-guns!
To one who was supremely impatient of restraint, the methods and aims of Kurt's employers were not only impossibly fantastic and illogical they were to be opposed to the last ounce of any man's energy. "Your friends late?" He tried to sound casual. "Not yet, and if you now plan to play the hero, Murdock, think better of it!"
In desperation, in unabated fury, the little army of farmers and laborers, with no thought of personal gain, with what seemed to Kurt a wonderful and noble spirit, attacked this encroaching line of fire like men whose homes and lives and ideals had been threatened with destruction. Kurt's mind worked as swiftly as his tireless hands. This indeed was being in a front line of battle.
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