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She watched him sometimes, at the table, when on Sundays he ate the
mid-day meal with them; his thin hatchet face, his prominent
epiglottis. He wore a fresh cotton shirt then, with a flaming
necktie, but he did not clean his fingernails. And his talk was
always of tearing down, never of building up.
"Just give us time, and we'll show them," he often said. And "them"
was always the men higher up.
He hated policemen. He and Herman had had many arguments about
policemen. Herman was not like Rudolph. He believed in law and
order. He even believed in those higher up. But he believed very
strongly in the fraternity of labor. Until the first weeks of that
New-year, Herman Klein, outside the tyranny of his home life,
represented very fairly a certain type of workman, believing in the
dignity and integrity of his order. But, with his failure to
relocate himself, something went wrong in Herman. He developed, in
his obstinate, stubborn, German head a suspicion of the land of his
adoption.


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