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To make sure, he got up and looked round the room. As soon as they won the world's title people simply went and hid themselves. He could find no one. All the same he could have sworn the world champion was sitting on the bed playing chess with him. Surely he couldn't be hiding in the next room? Now don't you worry. Fischerlc would soon find him. Calm as calm, he looked through the next room; the room was empty. He opened the door of the wardrobe and made a pounce with his hand, no chess player would escape him. He moved very softly, who wouldn't? Why should that long creature with the books be disturbed in his sleep only because Fischerlc had to track down his enemy? Quite possibly the champion wasn't there at all, and for a mere whim he was throwing his beautiful job away. Under the bed he grazed over every inch with the tip of his nose. It was a long time since he'd been back under any bed and it reminded him of the old days at home. As he crawled out his eyes rested on a coat folded up over a chair. Then it occurred to him how greedy world champions always were for money, they could never get enough; to win the title from them one had to put down heaps of money in cash, just like that, on the table; there was no doubt the fellow was after the money, and was lurking about somewhere near the wallet. He might not have found it yet, it ought to be saved from him; a creature like that could manage anything. To-morrow the money'd be gone and the flagpole would think Fischerle took it. But you couldn't deceive him. With his long arms he stretched for the wallet from below, pulled it out and withdrew himself under the bed. He might have crawled right out, but why should he? The world champion was larger and stronger than he, sure as fate he was standing behind that chair, lurking for the money, and would knock Fischerle out because he'd got in first. By this skilful manœuvre no one noticed anything. Let the dirty swindler stay where he was. Nobody asked him to come. He could scram. That would be best. Who wanted him?

Soon Fischerle had forgotten him. In his hiding place right at the back under the bed he counted over the beautiful new notes, just for the pleasure of it. He remembered exactly how many there were. As soon as he had done he started again at the beginning. Fischerle is off now to a far country, to America. There he goes up to the world champion Capablanca, and says: 'I've been looking for you!' puts down his caution money and plays until the fellow is beaten hollow. On the next day Fischerle's picture is in all the papers. He does pretty well out of it all. At home, under the Stars of Heaven, that lot wouldn t believe their eyes, his wife, the whore, begins to howl and yell if she'd only known it she would have let him play all he wanted; the others shut her up with a couple of smacks — serve her right — that's what happens when a woman won't bother to learn about the game. Women'll be the end of men. If he'd stayed at home, he'd never have made good. A man must cut loose, that's the whole secret. None but the brave deserve to be world champion. And people have the nerve to say Jews aren't brave. The reporters ask him who he is. Not a soul knows him. He doesn't look like an American. There are Jews everywhere. But where does this Jew come from, who's rolled in triumph over Capablanca? For the first day he'll let people guess. The papers would like to tell their readers, but they don't know. Everywhere the headlines read: 'Mystery of the new World Champion.' The police become interested, naturally. They want to lock him up again. No, no, gentlemen, not so fast this time; now he throws the money about and the police are honoured to release him at once. On the 
second day, a round hundred reporters turn up. Each one promises him, shall we say, a thousand dollars cash down if he'll say something. Fischerle says not a word. The papers begin to lie. What else are they to do? The readers won't wait any longer. Fischerle sits in a mammoth hotel with one of those luxury cocktail bars, like on a giant liner. The head waiter brings the loveliest ladies to his table, not tarts mind you, millionairesses with a personal interest in him. He thanks them politely, but hasn't time, later perhaps ... And why hasn't he time? Because he's reading all the lies about him in all the papers. It takes all day. How's he to get through it? Every minute he's interrupted. Press photographers ask for a moment of his time. 'But gentlemen, a hump . . . !' he protests. 'A world champion is a world champion, honoured Mr. Fischerle. The hump is quite immaterial.' They photograph him right and left, before and behind. "Why don't you retouch it,' he suggests, 'take the hump out. Then you'll have a nice picture for your paper.' 'Just as you please, most honoured world champion!' But really, where's he had his eyes? His picture is everywhere, without a hump. It's gone. He hasn't one. But ne worries a bit about his size. He calls the head waiter and points to a paper. 'A bad picture, what?' he asks. The head waiter says: '
WeIl.
' In America people speak English. He finds the picture excellent. 'But it's only the head,' he says. That's right too. 'You can go now,' says Fischerle and tips him a hundred dollars. In this picture he might be a fully grown man. No one would notice he was undersized. He loses his interest in the articles. He can't be bothered to read all this in English. He only understands 'Well!' Later on he has all the latest editions of the papers brought to him and looks hard at all his pictures. His head is everywhere. His nose is a bit long, that's true; can't help his nose. From a child up he's been all for chess. He might have taken some other idea into his head, football or swimming or boxing. But not he. It's a bit of luck really. If he were a boxing champion, now, he'd have to be photographed half naked. Everyone would laugh at him and he'd get nothing out of it. On the next day at least a thousand reporters turn up. 'Gentlemen,' he says, 'I'm surprised to find myself called Fischerle everywhere. My name is Fischer. I trust that you will have this error rectified.' They promise they will. Then they all kneel down in front of him — how small men are — and implore him to say something at last. They'll be thrown out, they'll lose their jobs, they cry, if they get nothing out of him to-day. My sorrow, he thinks, nothing for nothing, he gave the head waiter a hundred dollars, but he won't give the reporters anything. 'What's your bid, gentlemen?' he cries boldly. A thousand dollars, shouts one. Cheek, screams another, ten thousand! A third takes him by the hand and whispers: a hundred thousand, Mr. Fischer. People throw money about like nothing. He stops his ears. Until they get into millions he won't even listen to them. The reporters go mad and begin tearing each other's hair, each one wants to give more than the other; all this fuss; auctioneering his private life! One goes up to five millions, and all at once there is absolute quiet. Not one dares offer more. World Champion Fischer takes his fingers out of his ears and declares: 'I will now say something, gentlemen. What good will it do me to ruin you? None. How many of you are there? A thousand. Let each one of you give me ten thousand and I'll tell you all. Then I shall have ten millions and not one of you will be ruined. Agreed?' They fall on his neck and he's a made man. Then he clambers up on a chair, he doesn't really need to any more but he does it all the same, and tells them the simple truth. As a world champion, he fell from Heaven. It takes a good hour to convince them. He was unhappily married. His wife, a Capitalist, fell into evil ways, she was — as they used to call it in his home, the Stars of Heaven — a whore.' She wanted him to take money from her. He didn't know any way out. If he wouldn't take any, she used to say, she'd murder him. He was forced to do it. He had yielded to her blackmail and kept the money for her. Twenty long years he had to endure this. In the end he was fed up. One dav he demanded categorically that she should stop or he'd become chess champion of the world. She cried, but she wouldn't stop. She was too much accustomed to doing nothing, to having fine clothes and lovely clean-shaven gentlemen. He was sorry for her but a man must keep his word. He goes straight from the Stars of Heaven to the United States, finishes off Capablanca, and here he is! The reporters rave about him. So does he. He founds a charity. He will pay a Stipendium to every cafe in the world. In return the proprietors must undertake to put up on their walls every game played by the world champion. Any person defacing the notices will be prosecuted. Every individual person can thus convince himself that the world champion is a better player than he is. Otherwise some swindler may suddenly pop up, a dwarf or even a cripple, and brag he plays better. People may not think of checking up the cripple's moves. They are capable of believing him simply because he's a good liar. Things like that must stop. On each wall is a placard. The cheat makes one wrong move, everyone looks at the placard and who then will blush to the very hump on his miserable back. The crook! Moreover the proprietor must undertake to fetch him a sock on the jaw for saying things about the world champion. Let him challenge him openly if he's got the money. Fischerle will put down a million for this foundation. He's not mean. He'll send a million to his wife so she needn't go on the streets any more. In return she'll give it him in writing that she won't come to America and will keep mum about his former dealings with the police. Fischer's going to marry a millionairess. This will reimburse him for his losses. He'll have new suits made at the best possible tailor so that his wife'll notice nothing. À gigantic palace will be built with real castles, knights, pawns, just as it ought to be. The servants are in livery; in thirty vast halls Fischer plays night and day thirty simultaneous games of chess with living pieces which he has only to command. All he has to do is to speak and his slaves move wherever he tells them. Challengers come from all the chief countries of the world, poor devils who want to learn something from him. Many sell their coats and shoes to pay for the long journey. He receives them with hospitality, gives them a good meal, with soup, a sweet and two veg, and pretty often a nice grilled steak instead of a cut from the joint. Anyone can be beaten by him once. He asks nothing in return for his kindness. Only that each one should write his name in the visitors' book on leaving and categorically assert that he, Fischer, is the world champion. He defends his tide. While he does so his new wife goes out riding in her car. Once a week he goes with her. In the castle all the chandeliers are put out, lighting alone costs him a fortune. On the door he pins up a notice: 'Back soon. Fischer: World Champion.' He does not stay out two hours, but visitors are queueing up like in the war when he gets back. 'What are you queuing for.?' asks a passer-by. 'What, don't you know? You must be a stranger here.' Out of pity the others tell him who it is that lives here. So that he shall understand each one tells him singly, then they all shout in a chorus: 'Chess Champion of the World, Fischer, is giving alms to-day.' The stranger is struck dumb. After an hour he finds his voice again. 'Then this is his reception day?' That is just what the natives have been waiting for. 'To-day is not a reception day or there would be far more people.' Now all of them begin talking at once. 'Where is he? The castle is dark!' 'With his wife in the car. This is his second wife. The first was only a simple Capitalist. The second is a millionairess. The car belongs to him. It isn't just a taxi. He had it built specially.' What they are saying is the simple truth. He sits in his car, it suits him very well. It is a little too small for his wife who has to crouch all the time. But in return she's allowed to ride with him. At other times she has her own. He doesn't go out in hers. It's much too big for him. But his was the more expensive. The factory made his car specially. He feels inside it just as if he were under the bed. Looking out of the windows is too boring. He shuts his eyes tight. Not a thing moves. Under the bed he is perfectly at home. He hears his wife's voice from above. He's fed up with her, what does she mean to him; She doesn't understand a thing about chess. The man is saying something too. Is he a player? He's obviously intelligent. Wait, now, wait; why should he wait? What's waiting to him? That man up there is talking good German. He's a professional man, sure to be a secret champion. These people are afraid of being recognized. It's with them like it is with crowned heads. They have to come to women incognito. That man's a world champion for sure, not just an ordinary champion! He must challenge him. He can't wait longer. His head bursts with good moves. He'll beat him into a cocked hat!