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'A father has a right to ...' '... the love of his child.' Loud and toneless, as though she were at school, she completed his sentences, but she felt very low.

'For getting married my daughter...' — he held out his arm — '... has no time.' 

'She gets her keep from ...''... her good father.' 

'Other men do not want...' '... to have her.' 

'What could a man do with ...' '... the silly child.' 

'Now her father's going to .. ' '... arrest her.' 

'On father's knee sits ...' '... his obedient daughter.' 

'A man gets tired in the ...' '... police.' 

'If my daughter isn't obedient she gets .. ' '... thrashed.' 

'Her father knows why he ...' '... thrashes her.' 

'My daughter isn't ever ..." '... hurt.' 

'She got to learn what she ...' '... owes to her father.'

He had gripped her and pulled her on to his knee; with his right hand he pinched her neck, because she was under arrest, with his left he eased the belchings out of his throat. Both sensations pleased him. She summoned her small intelligence to conclude his sentences rightly and took care not to cry. For hours he fondled her. He instructed her in the special holds he had invented himself, pushed her this way and that, and showed her how every criminal could be overpowered by a juicy blow in the stomach, because who wouldn't feel ill after that?

This honeymoon lasted half a year. One day the father was pensioned and went to work no more. Now he would devote himself to the nuisance of begging in the house. His peep-hole, a foot and a half from the ground, was the outcome of several days' brooding. At rehearsals, his daughter played her part. Countless times she walked from the house door to the stairs and back. 'Slower!' he bellowed, or 'Quick march!' Immediately after he forced her to slip into his old trousers and act the part of a male suspect. The knock-out he had planned for the suspect fell to her share as well. Hardly had he seen his own trousers through the newly drilled peep-hole, than he leaped up in a fury, tore open the door, and with a couple of devilish blows laid her flat on the floor. 'Because,' he excused himself later, as if this were the first time he had ever hit her, 'that's the way it has to be, because ou're a rat. Shave their heads in prison, they do; cut 'em off would >e more like it. A burden on the tax-payer. Eating themselves full in prison. The bleeding State pays. I'll wipe the vermin out. The cat's at home now. The mice can keep in the holes! I'm Ginger the Cat. I'll eat 'em up. A rat, you'll know what crushing means!'

She knew it and rejoiced at her lovely future. He wouldn't lock her up any more, he would be at home himself. He would see her all day, she could stay out longer shopping, forty minutes, fifty, a whole hour, no, not so long; she would go to the grocer, she would choose the emptiest times, she must say thank you for the cigarette, he gave it her three months and four days ago; at the time she was excited, and later there were so many people, she never thanked him, what must he be thinking of her; if he asks, how she liked it, she will say: very good, and father nearly took it away from her; he said it was the best kind, he would like to smoke it himself.

True, her father had never once seen the cigarette; it doesn't matter, she must thank the dark-haired Mr. Franz and tell him it's the best brand, her father knows what's what. Perhaps he'd give her another cigarette. She'd smoke that one there and then. If anyone came in, 
she'd turn away and throw the cigarette quickly over the counter. He will know how to put it out before the place gets on fire. He's clever. In the summer he manages the shop himself, the manager goes on holiday. Between two and three there's no one in the shop. He must take care no one sees him. He holds out the match to her and the cigarette burns. I'll burn you, she says, he's frightened, he's so delicate, as a child he was always ill, she knows it. She points it at him, she touches him. Oh, he cries, my hand, that hurts! She calls: 'For love,' and runs away. At night he comes to carry her off, her father sleeps, the bell rings, she goes to open. She takes all the money with her, over her nightdress she slips on her own coat, the one she's never allowed to wear, not the old cast-off of her father's, she looks like a maiden fair; who is this waiting at the door? It is he. A coach with four black steeds is ready. He offers her his hand. With his left hand he holds his sword, he is a nobleman, and bows low. He has tailor-pressed trousers on. 'I have come,' he says, 'you burnt my hand. I am the noble knight Franz.' She had always thought so. He was too beautiful for a grocer's shop, a knight in disguise. He asks her leave to kill her father. It is a question of honour. 'No, no!' she implores him, 'he will kill your Royal Highness!' He pushes her to one side, out of her pockets she ulls all the money and holds it out to him, he gazes piercingly at her, is honour is at stake. At a single blow, in the white closet, he severs her father's head from his body. She cries with joy, if only her poor mother had lived to see it, she would be alive to-day. The noble knight Franz takes father's ginger head away with him. On the threshold he says: 'Gracious lady, to-day you have opened this door for the last time, let me abduct you to the altar.' Then her litde foot mounts into the coach. He helps her up. Inside she may sit, there is heaps of room. 'Are you of age?' he asks. 'Past twenty,' she says, though she doesn't look it, she was her father's little girl until this evening. (Really, she's only sixteen; he mustn't guess.) She must get a husband and leave home. And the beautiful dark-haired knight stands up in the middle of the coach as it bowls along, and throws himself at her feet. He will marry her and her alone, or else his valiant heart will break. She blushes, and strokes his hair, it is very black. He admires her coat. She will wear it every day until she dies, it's still quite new. "Where are we going?' she asks. The steeds champ and toss their heads. What a lot of houses there are in the town. 'To your mother,' he says, 'why shouldn't she be happy.' At the cemetery the four steeds stop, right in front is mother's grave. Here is her tombstone. Sir Franz lays her father's head on it. It is his gift. 'Have you nothing for your mother?' he asks her; ah, how ashamed she is, how ashamed she is, he has brought something for mother, she has nothing. Then she pulls out a little red packet from under her nightdress; inside it there is a love-token, a cigarette, and she lays it down beside the ginger head. Mother rejoices in her happy children. Both kneel at mother's grave and pray for her blessing.

Father kneels at his peep-hole, grabs at her every other minute, drags her down beside him, holds her head to the opening and asks her if she sees anything. She is exhausted with the long rehearsal, the corridor dances before her eyes, on the chance she says 'Yes'. 'Yes what!' bellows the beheaded father, he is still very much alive, to-night he'll get a shock when the coach and four comes to the door. 'Yes, yes!' he apes her and derides her. 'Not blind, are you? My daughter blind! Now I'm asking: What do you see?' She has to kneel until she has seen what he means. He means a mark on the opposite wall.

His invention taught him a new view of the world. She took an enforced part in his discoveries. She has learnt too little and knows nothing. When he dies, in forty years or more (everybody's got to die sometime), she'll fall on the rates. He can't have a crime like that on his conscience. She must learn something about the police. So he explained to her all the peculiarities of the tenants, taught her to observe the different skirts and trousers and their significance in the detection of crime. In his zeal for instruction he sometimes let a beggar go by, and afterwards held her responsible for his sacrifice. The tenants, he told her, were respectable people, but suspects all the same. For what did he get from them for the special protection he afforded their house? They simply put the fruit of his labours into their own pockets. Instead of thanking him they ran him down. As if he'd done someone in. And why should he work for nothing? He's got his pension and could sit around or go after women or drink his money, he's worked all his life, he's a right to be lazy. But he has a conscience. First of all he says to himself, he's got a daughter whom he has to care for. Who'd have the heart to leave her alone in the house ! He stays with her and she'll stay with him. The good father of a family folds his child to his bosom. Half a year she was all alone, since the old woman died, he had to go to work, no shirking in the police force. Secondly the State pays him a pension. The State
has
to pay. There's no getting out of it, whatever else goes, it has to go on paying the pensions. One man might say: I've worked enough. Another man is grateful for his pension and works for nothing. They are the best sort. They arrest whatever people they can, half kill them, killing them altogether is forbidden, and save the State a lot of work. That's called relief work, because it relieves the State of the burden. The police must stick together, retired ones too, consciences like that oughtn't to be retired ever. They are irreplaceable and when they die they leave a vacuum.

Day by day the girl learnt more. She had to remember her father's discoveries and support his memory when it failed him, for what's the good of a daughter eating up the best part of one's pension? If a new beggar came, he told her to look quick through the peep-hole, and asked her, not if she knew this one, but 'When was he here before?' Traps are instructive, specially hers, for she was always caught. When the beggar was done with, the regulation punishment for her carelessness was established and immediately executed. Without corporal punishment no one ever got anywhere. The English are a tremendous people.

Little by little Benedikt Pfaff had educated his daughter so well that she could take his place. From then on he called her Polly, which was a title of honour. It expressed her aptitude for his profession. Her real name was Anna but as this name meant nothing to him he never used it; he was an enemy to names. Titles pleased him better: those which he had himself bestowed were an obsession with him. With her mother's death, Anna too had died. For six months the girl was 'you' or 'my daughter'. Since he had nominated her Polly, he was proud of her. Women were good for something after all, men must understand how to make Pollys of them.

Her new dignity carried with it a yet more strenuous duty. All day long she sat or knelt by him on the floor, ready to take his place. It happened that he would have to retire for a moment or two; then she stepped into his post. If a hawker or a beggar came into her line of vision, it was her duty to hold up the person in question, either by force or by cunning until her father should be ready to take over the sh— house. He always hurried back. He preferred to do the job all himself, it was enough for him to have her merely as a spectator. His new way of living occupied more and more of his attention. Meals lost their interest for him, his hunger grew less. After a few months he came to depend for air and exercise on a few newcomers only. The other beggars of the district avoided his house like the plague, they knew why. His fearsome stomach, on which he set so much store, grew more moderate. His daughter's cooking time was fixed at one hour per day. For so long only was she allowed to stay in the inner room. She peeled potatoes at his side, at his side she washed the green vegetables, and while she beat the steak for his dinner, he could thump her to his heart's content. His eye did not know what his hand did; it was fixed, unblinking and unwavering, on in-going and out-going legs.

For her shopping, since he now ate half as much as before, he allowed Polly a quarter of an hour. Cunning as she had grown in her father's school, she often forewent the dark-haired Franz for a day, stayed at home, and on the following day cashed two quarters of an hour together. But she never met the noble knight alone. Secretly she stammered her thanks for the cigarette. Perhaps he understood her, he looked away so delicately. At night she stayed awake long after her father was asleep. But he never rang, the preparations took such a long time, ah, if only she'd burnt him, then he would have had to hurry, there were always so many women in the shop. Once, when he was writing out her bill, she d whisper quickly: 'Thank you, it needn't be a coach, don't forget your sword!'

One day the women were standing outside the grocer's talking altogether. 'That Franz has absconded!' 'Came of a bad family.' 'With the cash-box.' 'Shifty look he had.' 'Sixty-eight schillings!' 'Ought to have capital punishment again!' 'My husband's been saying so for years.' Trembling, she flung herself into the shop; the manager was just saying: 'The police have a clue.' He's the one to suffer, because he left him alone in charge, four years the scoundrel's been in the shop, who would have thought it of him, no one noticed a thing, the cash was always right, four years, the police have just rung up, six o'clock at the latest they'll have him behind bars.

'It's not true!' shouted Polly and suddenly began to cry. 'My father's a policeman himself!'

No one noticed her as there was a money-loss to lament. She ran away and came home with an empty basket. Without a word to her father she locked herself in to the back room. He was engaged and waited a quarter of an hour. Then he stood up and commanded her to come out. She was silent. 'Polly!'he bellowed. 'Polly!' Nothing stirred. He promised her imunity with the firm intention of thrashing her within an inch of her life, even more if she murmured. Instead of her answer he heard a fall. To his fury he saw himself compelled to break open his own door. 'In the name of the law!' he bellowed, out of habit. The girl lay mute and still in front of the stove. Before hitting her, he turned her over once or twice. She was unconscious. He shrank; she was young and he liked her. Several times he ordered her to come back to her senses. Her deafness infuriated him, against his will. All the same, he wanted to start on a less sensitive place. Looking for one, his eye fell on the shopping basket. It was empty. Now he knew. She'd lost the money. He understood her terror. He wouldn't stand for a joke of that kind. She'd left the house with a whole ten schilling note. She couldn't have lost it all? He searched her thoroughly. For the first time he touched her with fingers, not with fists. He found a little red parcel full of tobacco dust. He tore it up and threw it in the dustbin. Last of all he opened her purse. The ten schilling note was inside. Not a corner had gone. Now he was at a loss again. Bewildered, he beat her back into consciousness. When she came to herself, he was sweating, so carefully had he directed his blows, and great tears were running out of his mouth.