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Title: An American Tragedy (1925)
Author: Theodore Dreiser (1871-1945)
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Title: An American Tragedy (1925)
Author: Theodore Dreiser (1871-1945)
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
Dusk--of a summer night.
And the tall walls of the commercial heart of an American city of
perhaps 400,000 inhabitants--such walls as in time may linger as a
mere fable.
And up the broad street, now comparatively hushed, a little band
of six,--a man of about fifty, short, stout, with bushy hair
protruding from under a round black felt hat, a most unimportant-
looking person, who carried a small portable organ such as is
customarily used by street preachers and singers. And with him a
woman perhaps five years his junior, taller, not so broad, but
solid of frame and vigorous, very plain in face and dress, and yet
not homely, leading with one hand a small boy of seven and in the
other carrying a Bible and several hymn books. With these three,
but walking independently behind, was a girl of fifteen, a boy of
twelve and another girl of nine, all following obediently, but not
too enthusiastically, in the wake of the others.
It was hot, yet with a sweet languor about it all.
Crossing at right angles the great thoroughfare on which they
walked, was a second canyon-like way, threaded by throngs and
vehicles and various lines of cars which clanged their bells and
made such progress as they might amid swiftly moving streams of
traffic. Yet the little group seemed unconscious of anything save
a set purpose to make its way between the contending lines of
traffic and pedestrians which flowed by them.
Having reached an intersection this side of the second principal
thoroughfare--really just an alley between two tall structures--now
quite bare of life of any kind, the man put down the organ, which
the woman immediately opened, setting up a music rack upon which
she placed a wide flat hymn book. Then handing the Bible to the
man, she fell back in line with him, while the twelve-year-old boy
put down a small camp-stool in front of the organ. The man--the
father, as he chanced to be--looked about him with seeming wide-
eyed assurance, and announced, without appearing to care whether he
had any auditors or not:
"We will first sing a hymn of praise, so that any who may wish to
acknowledge the Lord may join us. Will you oblige, Hester?"
At this the eldest girl, who until now had attempted to appear as
unconscious and unaffected as possible, bestowed her rather slim
and as yet undeveloped figure upon the camp chair and turned the
leaves of the hymn book, pumping the organ while her mother
observed:
"I should think it might be nice to sing twenty-seven tonight--'How
Sweet the Balm of Jesus' Love.'"
By this time various homeward-bound individuals of diverse grades
and walks of life, noticing the small group disposing itself in
this fashion, hesitated for a moment to eye them askance or paused
to ascertain the character of their work. This hesitancy,
construed by the man apparently to constitute attention, however
mobile, was seized upon by him and he began addressing them as
though they were specifically here to hear him.
"Let us all sing twenty-seven, then--'How Sweet the Balm of Jesus'
Love.'"
At this the young girl began to interpret the melody upon the
organ, emitting a thin though correct strain, at the same time
joining her rather high soprano with that of her mother, together
with the rather dubious baritone of the father. The other children
piped weakly along, the boy and girl having taken hymn books from
the small pile stacked upon the organ. As they sang, this
nondescript and indifferent street audience gazed, held by the
peculiarity of such an unimportant-looking family publicly raising
its collective voice against the vast skepticism and apathy of
life. Some were interested or moved sympathetically by the rather
tame and inadequate figure of the girl at the organ, others by the
impractical and materially inefficient texture of the father, whose
weak blue eyes and rather flabby but poorly-clothed figure bespoke
more of failure than anything else. Of the group the mother alone
stood out as having that force and determination which, however
blind or erroneous, makes for self-preservation, if not success in
life. She, more than any of the others, stood up with an ignorant,
yet somehow respectable air of conviction. If you had watched her,
her hymn book dropped to her side, her glance directed straight
before her into space, you would have said: "Well, here is one
who, whatever her defects, probably does what she believes as
nearly as possible." A kind of hard, fighting faith in the wisdom
and mercy of that definite overruling and watchful power which she
proclaimed, was written in her every feature and gesture.
"The love of Jesus saves me whole,
The love of God my steps control,"
she sang resonantly, if slightly nasally, between the towering
walls of the adjacent buildings.
The boy moved restlessly from one foot to the other, keeping his
eyes down, and for the most part only half singing. A tall and as
yet slight figure, surmounted by an interesting head and face--
white skin, dark hair--he seemed more keenly observant and
decidedly more sensitive than most of the others--appeared indeed
to resent and even to suffer from the position in which he found
himself. Plainly pagan rather than religious, life interested him,
although as yet he was not fully aware of this. All that could be
truly said of him now was that there was no definite appeal in all
this for him. He was too young, his mind much too responsive to
phases of beauty and pleasure which had little, if anything, to do
with the remote and cloudy romance which swayed the minds of his
mother and father.
Indeed the home life of which this boy found himself a part and the
various contacts, material and psychic, which thus far had been
his, did not tend to convince him of the reality and force of all
that his mother and father seemed so certainly to believe and say.
Rather, they seemed more or less troubled in their lives, at least
materially. His father was always reading the Bible and speaking
in meeting at different places, especially in the "mission," which
he and his mother conducted not so far from this corner. At the
same time, as he understood it, they collected money from various
interested or charitably inclined business men here and there who
appeared to believe in such philanthropic work. Yet the family was
always "hard up," never very well clothed, and deprived of many
comforts and pleasures which seemed common enough to others. And
his father and mother were constantly proclaiming the love and
mercy and care of God for him and for all. Plainly there was
something wrong somewhere. He could not get it all straight, but
still he could not help respecting his mother, a woman whose force
and earnestness, as well as her sweetness, appealed to him.
Despite much mission work and family cares, she managed to be
fairly cheerful, or at least sustaining, often declaring most
emphatically "God will provide" or "God will show the way,"
especially in times of too great stress about food or clothes. Yet
apparently, in spite of this, as he and all the other children
could see, God did not show any very clear way, even though there
was always an extreme necessity for His favorable intervention in
their affairs.
To-night, walking up the great street with his sisters and brother,
he wished that they need not do this any more, or at least that he
need not be a part of it. Other boys did not do such things, and
besides, somehow it seemed shabby and even degrading. On more than
one occasion, before he had been taken on the street in this
fashion, other boys had called to him and made fun of his father,
because he was always publicly emphasizing his religious beliefs or
convictions. Thus in one neighborhood in which they had lived,
when he was but a child of seven, his father, having always
preluded every conversation with "Praise the Lord," he heard boys
call "Here comes old Praise-the-Lord Griffiths." Or they would
call out after him "Hey, you're the fellow whose sister plays the
organ. Is there anything else she can play?"
"What does he always want to go around saying, 'Praise the Lord'
for? Other people don't do it."
It was that old mass yearning for a likeness in all things that
troubled them, and him. Neither his father nor his mother was like
other people, because they were always making so much of religion,
and now at last they were making a business of it.
On this night in this great street with its cars and crowds and
tall buildings, he felt ashamed, dragged out of normal life, to be
made a show and jest of. The handsome automobiles that sped by,
the loitering pedestrians moving off to what interests and comforts
he could only surmise; the gay pairs of young people, laughing and
jesting and the "kids" staring, all troubled him with a sense of
something different, better, more beautiful than his, or rather
their life.
And now units of this vagrom and unstable street throng, which was
forever shifting and changing about them, seemed to sense the
psychologic error of all this in so far as these children were
concerned, for they would nudge one another, the more sophisticated
and indifferent lifting an eyebrow and smiling contemptuously, the
more sympathetic or experienced commenting on the useless presence
of these children.
"I see these people around here nearly every night now--two or
three times a week, anyhow," this from a young clerk who had just
met his girl and was escorting her toward a restaurant. "They're
just working some religious dodge or other, I guess."
"That oldest boy don't wanta be here. He feels outa place, I can
see that. It ain't right to make a kid like that come out unless
he wants to. He can't understand all this stuff, anyhow." This
from an idler and loafer of about forty, one of those odd hangers-
on about the commercial heart of a city, addressing a pausing and
seemingly amiable stranger.
"Yeh, I guess that's so," the other assented, taking in the
peculiar cast of the boy's head and face. In view of the uneasy
and self-conscious expression upon the face whenever it was lifted,
one might have intelligently suggested that it was a little unkind
as well as idle to thus publicly force upon a temperament as yet
unfitted to absorb their import, religious and psychic services
best suited to reflective temperaments of maturer years.
Yet so it was.
As for the remainder of the family, both the youngest girl and boy
were too small to really understand much of what it was all about
or to care. The eldest girl at the organ appeared not so much to
mind, as to enjoy the attention and comment her presence and
singing evoked, for more than once, not only strangers, but her
mother and father, had assured her that she had an appealing and
compelling voice, which was only partially true. It was not a good
voice. They did not really understand music. Physically, she was
of a pale, emasculate and unimportant structure, with no real
mental force or depth, and was easily made to feel that this was an
excellent field in which to distinguish herself and attract a
little attention. As for the parents, they were determined upon
spiritualizing the world as much as possible, and, once the hymn
was concluded, the father launched into one of those hackneyed
descriptions of the delights of a release, via self-realization of
the mercy of God and the love of Christ and the will of God toward
sinners, from the burdensome cares of an evil conscience.
"All men are sinners in the light of the Lord," he declared.
"Unless they repent, unless they accept Christ, His love and
forgiveness of them, they can never know the happiness of being
spiritually whole and clean. Oh, my friends! If you could but
know the peace and content that comes with the knowledge, the
inward understanding, that Christ lived and died for you and that
He walks with you every day and hour, by light and by dark, at dawn
and at dusk, to keep and strengthen you for the tasks and cares of
the world that are ever before you. Oh, the snares and pitfalls
that beset us all! And then the soothing realization that Christ
is ever with us, to counsel, to aid, to hearten, to bind up our
wounds and make us whole! Oh, the peace, the satisfaction, the
comfort, the glory of that!"
"Amen!" asseverated his wife, and the daughter, Hester, or Esta, as
she was called by the family, moved by the need of as much public
support as possible for all of them--echoed it after her.
Clyde, the eldest boy, and the two younger children merely gazed at
the ground, or occasionally at their father, with a feeling that
possibly it was all true and important, yet somehow not as
significant or inviting as some of the other things which life
held. They heard so much of this, and to their young and eager
minds life was made for something more than street and mission hall
protestations of this sort.
Finally, after a second hymn and an address by Mrs. Griffiths,
during which she took occasion to refer to the mission work jointly
conducted by them in a near-by street, and their services to the
cause of Christ in general, a third hymn was indulged in, and then
some tracts describing the mission rescue work being distributed,
such voluntary gifts as were forthcoming were taken up by Asa--the
father. The small organ was closed, the camp chair folded up and
given to Clyde, the Bible and hymn books picked up by Mrs.
Griffiths, and with the organ supported by a leather strap passed
over the shoulder of Griffiths, senior, the missionward march was
taken up.
During all this time Clyde was saying to himself that he did not
wish to do this any more, that he and his parents looked foolish
and less than normal--"cheap" was the word he would have used if
he could have brought himself to express his full measure of
resentment at being compelled to participate in this way--and that
he would not do it any more if he could help. What good did it do
them to have him along? His life should not be like this. Other
boys did not have to do as he did. He meditated now more
determinedly than ever a rebellion by which he would rid himself of
the need of going out in this way. Let his elder sister go if she
chose; she liked it. His younger sister and brother might be too
young to care. But he--
"They seemed a little more attentive than usual to-night, I
thought," commented Griffiths to his wife as they walked along, the
seductive quality of the summer evening air softening him into a
more generous interpretation of the customary indifferent spirit of
the passer-by.
"Yes; twenty-seven took tracts to-night as against eighteen on
Thursday."
"The love of Christ must eventually prevail," comforted the father,
as much to hearten himself as his wife. "The pleasures and cares
of the world hold a very great many, but when sorrow overtakes
them, then some of these seeds will take root."
"I am sure of it. That is the thought which always keeps me up.
Sorrow and the weight of sin eventually bring some of them to see
the error of their way."
They now entered into the narrow side street from which they had
emerged and walking as many as a dozen doors from the corner,
entered the door of a yellow single-story wooden building, the
large window and the two glass panes in the central door of which
had been painted a gray-white. Across both windows and the smaller
panels in the double door had been painted: "The Door of Hope.
Bethel Independent Mission. Meetings Every Wednesday and Saturday
night, 8 to 10. Sundays at 11, 3 and 8. Everybody Welcome."
Under this legend on each window were printed the words: "God is
Love," and below this again, in smaller type: "How Long Since You
Wrote to Mother?"
The small company entered the yellow unprepossessing door and
disappeared.
Chapter 2
That such a family, thus cursorily presented, might have a
different and somewhat peculiar history could well be anticipated,
and it would be true. Indeed, this one presented one of those
anomalies of psychic and social reflex and motivation such as would
tax the skill of not only the psychologist but the chemist and
physicist as well, to unravel. To begin with, Asa Griffiths, the
father, was one of those poorly integrated and correlated
organisms, the product of an environment and a religious theory,
but with no guiding or mental insight of his own, yet sensitive and
therefore highly emotional and without any practical sense
whatsoever. Indeed it would be hard to make clear just how life
appealed to him, or what the true hue of his emotional responses
was. On the other hand, as has been indicated, his wife was of a
firmer texture but with scarcely any truer or more practical
insight into anything.
The history of this man and his wife is of no particular interest
here save as it affected their boy of twelve, Clyde Griffiths.
This youth, aside from a certain emotionalism and exotic sense of
romance which characterized him, and which he took more from his
father than from his mother, brought a more vivid and intelligent
imagination to things, and was constantly thinking of how he might
better himself, if he had a chance; places to which he might go,
things he might see, and how differently he might live, if only
this, that and the other things were true. The principal thing
that troubled Clyde up to his fifteenth year, and for long after in
retrospect, was that the calling or profession of his parents was
the shabby thing that it appeared to be in the eyes of others. For
so often throughout his youth in different cities in which his
parents had conducted a mission or spoken on the streets--Grand
Rapids, Detroit, Milwaukee, Chicago, lastly Kansas City--it had
been obvious that people, at least the boys and girls he
encountered, looked down upon him and his brothers and sisters for
being the children of such parents. On several occasions, and much
against the mood of his parents, who never countenanced such
exhibitions of temper, he had stopped to fight with one or another
of these boys. But always, beaten or victorious, he had been
conscious of the fact that the work his parents did was not
satisfactory to others,--shabby, trivial. And always he was
thinking of what he would do, once he reached the place where he
could get away.
For Clyde's parents had proved impractical in the matter of the
future of their children. They did not understand the importance
or the essential necessity for some form of practical or
professional training for each and every one of their young ones.
Instead, being wrapped up in the notion of evangelizing the world,
they had neglected to keep their children in school in any one
place. They had moved here and there, sometimes in the very midst
of an advantageous school season, because of a larger and better
religious field in which to work. And there were times, when, the
work proving highly unprofitable and Asa being unable to make much
money at the two things he most understood--gardening and
canvassing for one invention or another--they were quite without
sufficient food or decent clothes, and the children could not go to
school. In the face of such situations as these, whatever the
children might think, Asa and his wife remained as optimistic as
ever, or they insisted to themselves that they were, and had
unwavering faith in the Lord and His intention to provide.
The combination home and mission which this family occupied was
dreary enough in most of its phases to discourage the average youth
or girl of any spirit. It consisted in its entirety of one long
store floor in an old and decidedly colorless and inartistic wooden
building which was situated in that part of Kansas City which lies
north of Independence Boulevard and west of Troost Avenue, the
exact street or place being called Bickel, a very short thoroughfare
opening off Missouri Avenue, a somewhat more lengthy but no less
nondescript highway. And the entire neighborhood in which it stood
was very faintly and yet not agreeably redolent of a commercial life
which had long since moved farther south, if not west. It was some
five blocks from the spot on which twice a week the open air
meetings of these religious enthusiasts and proselytizers were held.
And it was the ground floor of this building, looking out into
Bickel Street at the front and some dreary back yards of equally
dreary frame houses, which was divided at the front into a hall
forty by twenty-five feet in size, in which had been placed some
sixty collapsible wood chairs, a lectern, a map of Palestine or the
Holy Land, and for wall decorations some twenty-five printed but
unframed mottoes which read in part:
"WINE IS A MOCKER, STRONG DRINK IS RAGING AND WHOSOEVER IS DECEIVED
THEREBY IS NOT WISE."
"TAKE HOLD OF SHIELD AND BUCKLER, AND STAND UP FOR MINE HELP."
PSALMS 35:2.
"AND YE, MY FLOCK, THE FLOCK OF MY PASTURE, are men, AND I AM YOUR
GOD, SAITH THE LORD GOD." EZEKIEL 34:31.
"O GOD, THOU KNOWEST MY FOOLISHNESS, AND MY SINS ARE NOT HID FROM
THEE." PSALMS 69:5.
"IF YE HAVE FAITH AS A GRAIN OF MUSTARD SEED, YE SHALL SAY UNTO
THIS MOUNTAIN, REMOVE HENCE TO YONDER PLACE; AND IT SHALL MOVE; AND
NOTHING SHALL BE IMPOSSIBLE TO YOU." MATTHEW 17:20.
"FOR THE DAY OF THE LORD IS NEAR." OBADIAH 15.
"FOR THERE SHALL BE NO REWARD TO THE EVIL MAN." PROVERBS 24:20.
"LOOK, THEN, NOT UPON THE WINE WHEN IT IS RED: IT BITETH LIKE A
SERPENT, AND STINGETH LIKE AN ADDER." PROVERBS 23:31,32.
These mighty adjurations were as silver and gold plates set in a
wall of dross.
The rear forty feet of this very commonplace floor was intricately
and yet neatly divided into three small bedrooms, a living room
which overlooked the backyard and wooden fences of yards no better
than those at the back; also, a combination kitchen and dining room
exactly ten feet square, and a store room for mission tracts,
hymnals, boxes, trunks and whatever else of non-immediate use, but
of assumed value, which the family owned. This particular small
room lay immediately to the rear of the mission hall itself, and
into it before or after speaking or at such times as a conference
seemed important, both Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths were wont to retire--
also at times to meditate or pray.
How often had Clyde and his sisters and younger brother seen his
mother or father, or both, in conference with some derelict or
semi-repentant soul who had come for advice or aid, most usually
for aid. And here at times, when his mother's and father's
financial difficulties were greatest, they were to be found
thinking, or as Asa Griffiths was wont helplessly to say at times,
"praying their way out," a rather ineffectual way, as Clyde began
to think later.
And the whole neighborhood was so dreary and run-down that he hated
the thought of living in it, let alone being part of a work that
required constant appeals for aid, as well as constant prayer and
thanksgiving to sustain it.
Mrs. Elvira Griffiths before she had married Asa had been nothing
but an ignorant farm girl, brought up without much thought of
religion of any kind. But having fallen in love with him, she had
become inoculated with the virus of Evangelism and proselytizing
which dominated him, and had followed him gladly and enthusiastically
in all of his ventures and through all of his vagaries. Being
rather flattered by the knowledge that she could speak and sing, her
ability to sway and persuade and control people with the "word of
God," as she saw it, she had become more or less pleased with
herself on this account and so persuaded to continue.
Occasionally a small band of people followed the preachers to their
mission, or learning of its existence through their street work,
appeared there later--those odd and mentally disturbed or distrait
souls who are to be found in every place. And it had been Clyde's
compulsory duty throughout the years when he could not act for
himself to be in attendance at these various meetings. And always
he had been more irritated than favorably influenced by the types
of men and women who came here--mostly men--down-and-out laborers,
loafers, drunkards, wastrels, the botched and helpless who seemed
to drift in, because they had no other place to go. And they were
always testifying as to how God or Christ or Divine Grace had
rescued them from this or that predicament--never how they had
rescued any one else. And always his father and mother were saying
"Amen" and "Glory to God," and singing hymns and afterward taking
up a collection for the legitimate expenses of the hall--
collections which, as he surmised, were little enough--barely
enough to keep the various missions they had conducted in
existence.
The one thing that really interested him in connection with his
parents was the existence somewhere in the east--in a small city
called Lycurgus, near Utica he understood--of an uncle, a brother
of his father's, who was plainly different from all this. That
uncle--Samuel Griffiths by name--was rich. In one way and another,
from casual remarks dropped by his parents, Clyde had heard
references to certain things this particular uncle might do for a
person, if he but would; references to the fact that he was a
shrewd, hard business man; that he had a great house and a large
factory in Lycurgus for the manufacture of collars and shirts,
which employed not less than three hundred people; that he had a
son who must be about Clyde's age, and several daughters, two at
least, all of whom must be, as Clyde imagined, living in luxury in
Lycurgus. News of all this had apparently been brought west in
some way by people who knew Asa and his father and brother. As
Clyde pictured this uncle, he must be a kind of Croesus, living in
ease and luxury there in the east, while here in the west--Kansas
City--he and his parents and his brother and sisters were living in
the same wretched and hum-drum, hand-to-mouth state that had always
characterized their lives.
But for this--apart from anything he might do for himself, as he
early began to see--there was no remedy. For at fifteen, and even
a little earlier, Clyde began to understand that his education, as
well as his sisters' and brother's, had been sadly neglected. And
it would be rather hard for him to overcome this handicap, seeing
that other boys and girls with more money and better homes were
being trained for special kinds of work. How was one to get a
start under such circumstances? Already when, at the age of
thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, he began looking in the papers,
which, being too worldly, had never been admitted to his home, he
found that mostly skilled help was wanted, or boys to learn trades
in which at the moment he was not very much interested. For true
to the standard of the American youth, or the general American
attitude toward life, he felt himself above the type of labor which
was purely manual. What! Run a machine, lay bricks, learn to be a
carpenter, or a plasterer, or plumber, when boys no better than
himself were clerks and druggists' assistants and bookkeepers and
assistants in banks and real estate offices and such! Wasn't it
menial, as miserable as the life he had thus far been leading, to
wear old clothes and get up so early in the morning and do all the
commonplace things such people had to do?
For Clyde was as vain and proud as he was poor. He was one of
those interesting individuals who looked upon himself as a thing
apart--never quite wholly and indissolubly merged with the family
of which he was a member, and never with any profound obligations
to those who had been responsible for his coming into the world.
On the contrary, he was inclined to study his parents, not too
sharply or bitterly, but with a very fair grasp of their qualities
and capabilities. And yet, with so much judgment in that
direction, he was never quite able--at least not until he had
reached his sixteenth year--to formulate any policy in regard to
himself, and then only in a rather fumbling and tentative way.
Incidentally by that time the sex lure or appeal had begun to
manifest itself and he was already intensely interested and
troubled by the beauty of the opposite sex, its attractions for him
and his attraction for it. And, naturally and coincidentally, the
matter of his clothes and his physical appearance had begun to
trouble him not a little--how he looked and how other boys looked.
It was painful to him now to think that his clothes were not right;
that he was not as handsome as he might be, not as interesting.
What a wretched thing it was to be born poor and not to have any
one to do anything for you and not to be able to do so very much
for yourself!
Casual examination of himself in mirrors whenever he found them
tended rather to assure him that he was not so bad-looking--a
straight, well-cut nose, high white forehead, wavy, glossy, black
hair, eyes that were black and rather melancholy at times. And yet
the fact that his family was the unhappy thing that it was, that he
had never had any real friends, and could not have any, as he saw
it, because of the work and connection of his parents, was now
tending more and more to induce a kind of mental depression or
melancholia which promised not so well for his future. It served
to make him rebellious and hence lethargic at times. Because of
his parents, and in spite of his looks, which were really agreeable
and more appealing than most, he was inclined to misinterpret the
interested looks which were cast at him occasionally by young girls
in very different walks of life from him--the contemptuous and yet
rather inviting way in which they looked to see if he were
interested or disinterested, brave or cowardly.
And yet, before he had ever earned any money at all, he had always
told himself that if only he had a better collar, a nicer shirt,
finer shoes, a good suit, a swell overcoat like some boys had! Oh,
the fine clothes, the handsome homes, the watches, rings, pins that
some boys sported; the dandies many youths of his years already
were! Some parents of boys of his years actually gave them cars of
their own to ride in. They were to be seen upon the principal
streets of Kansas City flitting to and fro like flies. And pretty
girls with them. And he had nothing. And he never had had.
And yet the world was so full of so many things to do--so many
people were so happy and so successful. What was he to do? Which
way to turn? What one thing to take up and master--something that
would get him somewhere. He could not say. He did not know
exactly. And these peculiar parents were in no way sufficiently
equipped to advise him.
Chapter 3
One of the things that served to darken Clyde's mood just about the
time when he was seeking some practical solution for himself, to
say nothing of its profoundly disheartening effect on the Griffiths
family as a whole, was the fact that his sister Esta, in whom he
took no little interest (although they really had very little in
common), ran away from home with an actor who happened to be
playing in Kansas City and who took a passing fancy for her.
The truth in regard to Esta was that in spite of her guarded up-
bringing, and the seeming religious and moral fervor which at times
appeared to characterize her, she was just a sensuous, weak girl
who did not by any means know yet what she thought. Despite the
atmosphere in which she moved, essentially she was not of it. Like
the large majority of those who profess and daily repeat the dogmas
and creeds of the world, she had come into her practices and
imagined attitude so insensibly from her earliest childhood on,
that up to this time, and even later, she did not know the meaning
of it all. For the necessity of thought had been obviated by
advice and law, or "revealed" truth, and so long as other theories
or situations and impulses of an external or even internal,
character did not arise to clash with these, she was safe enough.
Once they did, however, it was a foregone conclusion that her
religious notions, not being grounded on any conviction or
temperamental bias of her own, were not likely to withstand the
shock. So that all the while, and not unlike her brother Clyde,
her thoughts as well as her emotions were wandering here and there--
to love, to comfort--to things which in the main had little, if
anything, to do with any self-abnegating and self-immolating
religious theory. Within her was a chemism of dreams which somehow
counteracted all they had to say.
Yet she had neither Clyde's force, nor, on the other hand, his
resistance. She was in the main a drifter, with a vague yearning
toward pretty dresses, hats, shoes, ribbons and the like, and
super-imposed above this, the religious theory or notion that she
should not be. There were the long bright streets of a morning and
afternoon after school or of an evening. The charm of certain
girls swinging along together, arms locked, secrets a-whispering,
or that of boys, clownish, yet revealing through their bounding
ridiculous animality the force and meaning of that chemistry and
urge toward mating which lies back of all youthful thought and
action. And in herself, as from time to time she observed lovers
or flirtation-seekers who lingered at street corners or about
doorways, and who looked at her in a longing and seeking way, there
was a stirring, a nerve plasm palpitation that spoke loudly for all
the seemingly material things of life, not for the thin
pleasantries of heaven.
And the glances drilled her like an invisible ray, for she was
pleasing to look at and was growing more attractive hourly. And
the moods in others awakened responsive moods in her, those
rearranging chemisms upon which all the morality or immorality of
the world is based.
And then one day, as she was coming home from school, a youth of
that plausible variety known as "masher" engaged her in
conversation, largely because of a look and a mood which seemed to
invite it. And there was little to stay her, for she was
essentially yielding, if not amorous. Yet so great had been her
home drilling as to the need of modesty, circumspection, purity and
the like, that on this occasion at least there was no danger of any
immediate lapse. Only this attack once made, others followed, were
accepted, or not so quickly fled from, and by degrees, these served
to break down that wall of reserve which her home training had
served to erect. She became secretive and hid her ways from her
parents.
Youths occasionally walked and talked with her in spite of herself.
They demolished that excessive shyness which had been hers, and
which had served to put others aside for a time at least. She
wished for other contacts--dreamed of some bright, gay, wonderful
love of some kind, with some one.
Finally, after a slow but vigorous internal growth of mood and
desire, there came this actor, one of those vain, handsome, animal
personalities, all clothes and airs, but no morals (no taste, no
courtesy or real tenderness even), but of compelling magnetism, who
was able within the space of one brief week and a few meetings to
completely befuddle and enmesh her so that she was really his to do
with as he wished. And the truth was that he scarcely cared for
her at all. To him, dull as he was, she was just another girl--
fairly pretty, obviously sensuous and inexperienced, a silly who
could be taken by a few soft words--a show of seemingly sincere
affection, talk of the opportunity of a broader, freer life on the
road, in other great cities, as his wife.
And yet his words were those of a lover who would be true forever.
All she had to do, as he explained to her, was to come away with
him and be his bride, at once--now. Delay was so vain when two
such as they had met. There was difficulty about marriage here,
which he could not explain--it related to friends--but in St. Louis
he had a preacher friend who would wed them. She was to have new
and better clothes than she had ever known, delicious adventures,
love. She would travel with him and see the great world. She
would never need to trouble more about anything save him; and while
it was truth to her--the verbal surety of a genuine passion--to him
it was the most ancient and serviceable type of blarney, often used
before and often successful.
In a single week then, at odd hours, morning, afternoon and night,
this chemic witchery was accomplished.
Coming home rather late one Saturday night in April from a walk
which he had taken about the business heart, in order to escape the
regular Saturday night mission services, Clyde found his mother and
father worried about the whereabouts of Esta. She had played and
sung as usual at this meeting. And all had seemed all right with
her. After the meeting she had gone to her room, saying that she
was not feeling very well and was going to bed early. But by
eleven o'clock, when Clyde returned, her mother had chanced to look
into her room and discovered that she was not there nor anywhere
about the place. A certain bareness in connection with the room--
some trinkets and dresses removed, an old and familiar suitcase
gone--had first attracted her mother's attention. Then the house
search proving that she was not there, Asa had gone outside to look
up and down the street. She sometimes walked out alone, or sat or
stood in front of the mission during its idle or closed hours.
This search revealing nothing, Clyde and he had walked to a corner,
then along Missouri Avenue. No Esta. At twelve they returned and
after that, naturally, the curiosity in regard to her grew
momentarily sharper.
At first they assumed that she might have taken an unexplained walk
somewhere, but as twelve-thirty, and finally one, and one-thirty,
passed, and no Esta, they were about to notify the police, when
Clyde, going into her room, saw a note pinned to the pillow of her
small wooden bed--a missive that had escaped the eye of his mother.
At once he went to it, curious and comprehending, for he had often
wondered in what way, assuming that he ever wished to depart
surreptitiously, he would notify his parents, for he knew they
would never countenance his departure unless they were permitted to
supervise it in every detail. And now here was Esta missing, and
here was undoubtedly some such communication as he might have left.
He picked it up, eager to read it, but at that moment his mother
came into the room and, seeing it in his hand, exclaimed: "What's
that? A note? Is it from her?" He surrendered it and she
unfolded it, reading it quickly. He noted that her strong broad
face, always tanned a reddish brown, blanched as she turned away
toward the outer room. Her biggish mouth was now set in a firm,
straight line. Her large, strong hand shook the least bit as it
held the small note aloft.
"Asa!" she called, and then tramping into the next room where he
was, his frizzled grayish hair curling distractedly above his round
head, she said: "Read this."
Clyde, who had followed, saw him take it a little nervously in his
pudgy hands, his lips, always weak and beginning to crinkle at the
center with age, now working curiously. Any one who had known his
life's history would have said it was the expression, slightly
emphasized, with which he had received most of the untoward blows
of his life in the past.
"Tst! Tst! Tst!" was the only sound he made at first, a sucking
sound of the tongue and palate--most weak and inadequate, it seemed
to Clyde. Next there was another "Tst! Tst! Tst!", his head
beginning to shake from side to side. Then, "Now, what do you
suppose could have caused her to do that?" Then he turned and
gazed at his wife, who gazed blankly in return. Then, walking to
and fro, his hands behind him, his short legs taking unconscious
and queerly long steps, his head moving again, he gave vent to
another ineffectual "Tst! Tst! Tst!"
Always the more impressive, Mrs. Griffiths now showed herself
markedly different and more vital in this trying situation, a kind
of irritation or dissatisfaction with life itself, along with an
obvious physical distress, seeming to pass through her like a
visible shadow. Once her husband had gotten up, she reached out
and took the note, then merely glared at it again, her face set in
hard yet stricken and disturbing lines. Her manner was that of one
who is intensely disquieted and dissatisfied, one who fingers
savagely at a material knot and yet cannot undo it, one who seeks
restraint and freedom from complaint and yet who would complain
bitterly, angrily. For behind her were all those years of
religious work and faith, which somehow, in her poorly integrated
conscience, seemed dimly to indicate that she should justly have
been spared this. Where was her God, her Christ, at this hour when
this obvious evil was being done? Why had He not acted for her?
How was He to explain this? His Biblical promises! His perpetual
guidance! His declared mercies!
In the face of so great a calamity, it was very hard for her, as
Clyde could see, to get this straightened out, instantly at least.
Although, as Clyde had come to know, it could be done eventually,
of course. For in some blind, dualistic way both she and Asa
insisted, as do all religionists, in disassociating God from harm
and error and misery, while granting Him nevertheless supreme
control. They would seek for something else--some malign,
treacherous, deceiving power which, in the face of God's
omniscience and omnipotence, still beguiles and betrays--and find
it eventually in the error and perverseness of the human heart,
which God has made, yet which He does not control, because He does
not want to control it.
At the moment, however, only hurt and rage were with her, and yet
her lips did not twitch as did Asa's, nor did her eyes show that
profound distress which filled his. Instead she retreated a step
and reexamined the letter, almost angrily, then said to Asa:
"She's run away with some one and she doesn't say--" Then she
stopped suddenly, remembering the presence of the children--Clyde,
Julia, and Frank, all present and all gazing curiously, intently,
unbelievingly. "Come in here," she called to her husband, "I want
to talk to you a minute. You children had better go on to bed.
We'll be out in a minute."
With Asa then she retired quite precipitately to a small room back
of the mission hall. They heard her click the electric bulb. Then
their voices were heard in low converse, while Clyde and Julia and
Frank looked at each other, although Frank, being so young--only
ten--could scarcely be said to have comprehended fully. Even Julia
hardly gathered the full import of it. But Clyde, because of his
larger contact with life and his mother's statement ("She's run
away with some one"), understood well enough. Esta had tired of
all this, as had he. Perhaps there was some one, like one of those
dandies whom he saw on the streets with the prettiest girls, with
whom she had gone. But where? And what was he like? That note
told something, and yet his mother had not let him see it. She had
taken it away too quickly. If only he had looked first, silently
and to himself!
"Do you suppose she's run away for good?" he asked Julia dubiously,
the while his parents were out of the room, Julia herself looking
so blank and strange.
"How should I know?" she replied a little irritably, troubled by
her parents' distress and this secretiveness, as well as Esta's
action. "She never said anything to me. I should think she'd be
ashamed of herself if she has."
Julia, being colder emotionally than either Esta or Clyde, was more
considerate of her parents in a conventional way, and hence
sorrier. True, she did not quite gather what it meant, but she
suspected something, for she had talked occasionally with girls,
but in a very guarded and conservative way. Now, however, it was
more the way in which Esta had chosen to leave, deserting her
parents and her brothers and herself, that caused her to be angry
with her, for why should she go and do anything which would
distress her parents in this dreadful fashion. It was dreadful.
The air was thick with misery.
And as his parents talked in their little room, Clyde brooded too,
for he was intensely curious about life now. What was it Esta had
really done? Was it, as he feared and thought, one of those
dreadful runaway or sexually disagreeable affairs which the boys on
the streets and at school were always slyly talking about? How
shameful, if that were true! She might never come back. She had
gone with some man. There was something wrong about that, no
doubt, for a girl, anyhow, for all he had ever heard was that all
decent contacts between boys and girls, men and women, led to but
one thing--marriage. And now Esta, in addition to their other
troubles, had gone and done this. Certainly this home life of
theirs was pretty dark now, and it would be darker instead of
brighter because of this.
Presently the parents came out, and then Mrs. Griffiths' face, if
still set and constrained, was somehow a little different, less
savage perhaps, more hopelessly resigned.
"Esta's seen fit to leave us, for a little while, anyhow," was all
she said at first, seeing the children waiting curiously. "Now,
you're not to worry about her at all, or think any more about it.
She'll come back after a while, I'm sure. She has chosen to go her
own way, for a time, for some reason. The Lord's will be done."
("Blessed be the name of the Lord!" interpolated Asa.) "I thought
she was happy here with us, but apparently she wasn't. She must
see something of the world for herself, I suppose." (Here Asa put
in another Tst! Tst! Tst!) "But we mustn't harbor hard thoughts.
That won't do any good now--only thoughts of love and kindness."
Yet she said this with a kind of sternness that somehow belied it--
a click of the voice, as it were. "We can only hope that she will
soon see how foolish she has been, and unthinking, and come back.
She can't prosper on the course she's going now. It isn't the
Lord's way or will. She's too young and she's made a mistake. But
we can forgive her. We must. Our hearts must be kept open, soft
and tender." She talked as though she were addressing a meeting,
but with a hard, sad, frozen face and voice. "Now, all of you go
to bed. We can only pray now, and hope, morning, noon and night,
that no evil will befall her. I wish she hadn't done that," she
added, quite out of keeping with the rest of her statement and
really not thinking of the children as present at all--just of
Esta.
But Asa!
Such a father, as Clyde often thought, afterwards.
Apart from his own misery, he seemed only to note and be impressed
by the more significant misery of his wife. During all this, he
had stood foolishly to one side--short, gray, frizzled, inadequate.
"Well, blessed be the name of the Lord," he interpolated from time
to time. "We must keep our hearts open. Yes, we mustn't judge.
We must only hope for the best. Yes, yes! Praise the Lord--we
must praise the Lord! Amen! Oh, yes! Tst! Tst! Tst!"
"If any one asks where she is," continued Mrs. Griffiths after a
time, quite ignoring her spouse and addressing the children, who
had drawn near her, "we will say that she has gone on a visit to
some of my relatives back in Tonawanda. That won't be the truth,
exactly, but then we don't know where she is or what the truth is--
and she may come back. So we must not say or do anything that will
injure her until we know."
"Yes, praise the Lord!" called Asa, feebly.
"So if any one should inquire at any time, until we know, we will
say that."
"Sure," put in Clyde, helpfully, and Julia added, "All right."
Mrs. Griffiths paused and looked firmly and yet apologetically at
her children. Asa, for his part, emitted another "Tst! Tst! Tst!"
and then the children were waved to bed.
At that, Clyde, who really wanted to know what Esta's letter had
said, but was convinced from long experience that his mother would
not let him know unless she chose, returned to his room again, for
he was tired. Why didn't they search more if there was hope of
finding her? Where was she now--at this minute? On some train
somewhere? Evidently she didn't want to be found. She was
probably dissatisfied, just as he was. Here he was, thinking so
recently of going away somewhere himself, wondering how the family
would take it, and now she had gone before him. How would that
affect his point of view and action in the future? Truly, in spite
of his father's and mother's misery, he could not see that her
going was such a calamity, not from the GOING point of view, at any
rate. It was only another something which hinted that things were
not right here. Mission work was nothing. All this religious
emotion and talk was not so much either. It hadn't saved Esta.
Evidently, like himself, she didn't believe so much in it, either.
Chapter 4
The effect of this particular conclusion was to cause Clyde to
think harder than ever about himself. And the principal result of
his thinking was that he must do something for himself and soon.
Up to this time the best he had been able to do was to work at such
odd jobs as befall all boys between their twelfth and fifteenth
years: assisting a man who had a paper route during the summer
months of one year, working in the basement of a five-and-ten-cent
store all one summer long, and on Saturdays, for a period during
the winter, opening boxes and unpacking goods, for which he
received the munificent sum of five dollars a week, a sum which at
the time seemed almost a fortune. He felt himself rich and, in the
face of the opposition of his parents, who were opposed to the
theater and motion pictures also, as being not only worldly, but
sinful, he could occasionally go to one or another of those--in the
gallery--a form of diversion which he had to conceal from his
parents. Yet that did not deter him. He felt that he had a right
to go with his own money; also to take his younger brother Frank,
who was glad enough to go with him and say nothing.
Later in the same year, wishing to get out of school because he
already felt himself very much belated in the race, he secured a
place as an assistant to a soda water clerk in one of the cheaper
drug stores of the city, which adjoined a theater and enjoyed not a
little patronage of this sort. A sign--"Boy Wanted"--since it was
directly on his way to school, first interested him. Later, in
conversation with the young man whose assistant he was to be, and
from whom he was to learn the trade, assuming that he was
sufficiently willing and facile, he gathered that if he mastered
this art, he might make as much as fifteen and even eighteen
dollars a week. It was rumored that Stroud's at the corner of 14th
and Baltimore streets paid that much to two of their clerks. The
particular store to which he was applying paid only twelve, the
standard salary of most places.
But to acquire this art, as he was now informed, required time and
the friendly help of an expert. If he wished to come here and work
for five to begin with--well, six, then, since his face fell--he
might soon expect to know a great deal about the art of mixing
sweet drinks and decorating a large variety of ice creams with
liquid sweets, thus turning them into sundaes. For the time being
apprenticeship meant washing and polishing all the machinery and
implements of this particular counter, to say nothing of opening
and sweeping out the store at so early an hour as seven-thirty,
dusting, and delivering such orders as the owner of this drug store
chose to send out by him. At such idle moments as his immediate
superior--a Mr. Sieberling--twenty, dashing, self-confident,
talkative, was too busy to fill all the orders, he might be called
upon to mix such minor drinks--lemonades, Coca-Colas and the like--
as the trade demanded.
Yet this interesting position, after due consultation with his
mother, he decided to take. For one thing, it would provide him,
as he suspected, with all the ice-cream sodas he desired, free--an
advantage not to be disregarded. In the next place, as he saw it
at the time, it was an open door to a trade--something which he
lacked. Further, and not at all disadvantageously as he saw it,
this store required his presence at night as late as twelve
o'clock, with certain hours off during the day to compensate for
this. And this took him out of his home at night--out of the ten-
o'clock-boy class at last. They could not ask him to attend any
meetings save on Sunday, and not even then, since he was supposed
to work Sunday afternoons and evenings.
Next, the clerk who manipulated this particular soda fountain,
quite regularly received passes from the manager of the theater
next door, and into the lobby of which one door to the drug store
gave--a most fascinating connection to Clyde. It seemed so
interesting to be working for a drug store thus intimately
connected with a theater.
And best of all, as Clyde now found to his pleasure, and yet
despair at times, the place was visited, just before and after the
show on matinee days, by bevies of girls, single and en suite, who
sat at the counter and giggled and chattered and gave their hair
and their complexions last perfecting touches before the mirror.
And Clyde, callow and inexperienced in the ways of the world, and
those of the opposite sex, was never weary of observing the beauty,
the daring, the self-sufficiency and the sweetness of these, as he
saw them. For the first time in his life, while he busied himself
with washing glasses, filling the ice-cream and syrup containers,
arranging the lemons and oranges in the trays, he had an almost
uninterrupted opportunity of studying these girls at close range.
The wonder of them! For the most part, they were so well-dressed
and smart-looking--the rings, pins, furs, delightful hats, pretty
shoes they wore. And so often he overheard them discussing such
interesting things--parties, dances, dinners, the shows they had
seen, the places in or near Kansas City to which they were soon
going, the difference between the styles of this year and last, the
fascination of certain actors and actresses--principally actors--
who were now playing or soon coming to the city. And to this day,
in his own home he had heard nothing of all this.
And very often one or another of these young beauties was
accompanied by some male in evening suit, dress shirt, high hat,
bow tie, white kid gloves and patent leather shoes, a costume which
at that time Clyde felt to be the last word in all true distinction,
beauty, gallantry and bliss. To be able to wear such a suit with
such ease and air! To be able to talk to a girl after the manner
and with the sang-froid of some of these gallants! what a true
measure of achievement! No good-looking girl, as it then appeared
to him, would have anything to do with him if he did not possess
this standard of equipment. It was plainly necessary--the thing.
And once he did attain it--was able to wear such clothes as these--
well, then was he not well set upon the path that leads to all the
blisses? All the joys of life would then most certainly be spread
before him. The friendly smiles! The secret handclasps, maybe--an
arm about the waist of some one or another--a kiss--a promise of
marriage--and then, and then!
And all this as a revealing flash after all the years of walking
through the streets with his father and mother to public prayer
meeting, the sitting in chapel and listening to queer and
nondescript individuals--depressing and disconcerting people--
telling how Christ had saved them and what God had done for them.
You bet he would get out of that now. He would work and save his
money and be somebody. Decidedly this simple and yet idyllic
compound of the commonplace had all the luster and wonder of a
spiritual transfiguration, the true mirage of the lost and
thirsting and seeking victim of the desert.
However, the trouble with this particular position, as time
speedily proved, was that much as it might teach him of mixing
drinks and how to eventually earn twelve dollars a week, it was no
immediate solvent for the yearnings and ambitions that were already
gnawing at his vitals. For Albert Sieberling, his immediate
superior, was determined to keep as much of his knowledge, as well
as the most pleasant parts of the tasks, to himself. And further
he was quite at one with the druggist for whom they worked in
thinking that Clyde, in addition to assisting him about the
fountain, should run such errands as the druggist desired, which
kept Clyde industriously employed for nearly all the hours he was
on duty.
Consequently there was no immediate result to all this. Clyde
could see no way to dressing better than he did. Worse, he was
haunted by the fact that he had very little money and very few
contacts and connections--so few that, outside his own home, he was
lonely and not so very much less than lonely there. The flight of
Esta had thrown a chill over the religious work there, and because,
as yet, she had not returned--the family, as he now heard, was
thinking of breaking up here and moving, for want of a better idea,
to Denver, Colorado. But Clyde, by now, was convinced that he did
not wish to accompany them. What was the good of it, he asked
himself? There would be just another mission there, the same as
this one.
He had always lived at home--in the rooms at the rear of the
mission in Bickel Street, but he hated it. And since his eleventh
year, during all of which time his family had been residing in
Kansas City, he had been ashamed to bring boy friends to or near
it. For that reason he had always avoided boy friends, and had
walked and played very much alone--or with his brother and sisters.
But now that he was sixteen and old enough to make his own way, he
ought to be getting out of this. And yet he was earning almost
nothing--not enough to live on, if he were alone--and he had not as
yet developed sufficient skill or courage to get anything better.
Nevertheless when his parents began to talk of moving to Denver,
and suggested that he might secure work out there, never assuming
for a moment that he would not want to go he began to throw out
hints to the effect that it might he better if he did not. He
liked Kansas City. What was the use of changing? He had a job now
and he might get something better. But his parents, bethinking
themselves of Esta and the fate that had overtaken her, were not a
little dubious as to the outcome of such early adventuring on his
part alone. Once they were away, where would he live? With whom?
What sort of influence would enter his life, who would be at hand
to aid and council and guide him in the straight and narrow path,
as they had done? It was something to think about.
But spurred by this imminence of Denver, which now daily seemed to
be drawing nearer, and the fact that not long after this Mr.
Sieberling, owing to his too obvious gallantries in connection with
the fair sex, lost his place in the drug store, and Clyde came by a
new and bony and chill superior who did not seem to want him as an
assistant, he decided to quit--not at once, but rather to see, on
such errands as took him out of the store, if he could not find
something else. Incidentally in so doing, looking here and there,
he one day thought he would speak to the manager of the fountain
which was connected with the leading drug store in the principal
hotel of the city--the latter a great twelve-story affair, which
represented, as he saw it, the quintessence of luxury and ease.
Its windows were always so heavily curtained; the main entrance
(he had never ventured to look beyond that) was a splendiferous
combination of a glass and iron awning, coupled with a marble
corridor lined with palms. Often he had passed here, wondering
with boyish curiosity what the nature of the life of such a place
might be. Before its doors, so many taxis and automobiles were
always in waiting.
To-day, being driven by the necessity of doing something for
himself, he entered the drug store which occupied the principal
corner, facing 14th Street at Baltimore, and finding a girl cashier
in a small glass cage near the door, asked of her who was in charge
of the soda fountain. Interested by his tentative and uncertain
manner, as well as his deep and rather appealing eyes, and
instinctively judging that he was looking for something to do, she
observed: "Why, Mr. Secor, there, the manager of the store." She
nodded in the direction of a short, meticulously dressed man of
about thirty-five, who was arranging an especial display of toilet
novelties on the top of a glass case. Clyde approached him, and
being still very dubious as to how one went about getting anything
in life, and finding him engrossed in what he was doing, stood
first on one foot and then on the other, until at last, sensing
some one was hovering about for something, the man turned: "Well?"
he queried.
"You don't happen to need a soda fountain helper, do you?" Clyde
cast at him a glance that said as plain as anything could, "If you
have any such place, I wish you would please give it to me. I need
it."
"No, no, no," replied this individual, who was blond and vigorous
and by nature a little irritable and contentious. He was about to
turn away, but seeing a flicker of disappointment and depression
pass over Clyde's face, he turned and added, "Ever work in a place
like this before?"
"No place as fine as this. No, sir," replied Clyde, rather
fancifully moved by all that was about him. "I'm working now down
at Mr. Klinkle's store at 7th and Brooklyn, but it isn't anything
like this one and I'd like to get something better if I could."
"Uh," went on his interviewer, rather pleased by the innocent
tribute to the superiority of his store. "Well, that's reasonable
enough. But there isn't anything here right now that I could offer
you. We don't make many changes. But if you'd like to be a bell-
boy, I can tell you where you might get a place. They're looking
for an extra boy in the hotel inside there right now. The captain
of the boys was telling me he was in need of one. I should think
that would be as good as helping about a soda fountain, any day."
Then seeing Clyde's face suddenly brighten, he added: "But you
mustn't say that I sent you, because I don't know you. Just ask
for Mr. Squires inside there, under the stairs, and he can tell you
all about it."
At the mere mention of work in connection with so imposing an
institution as the Green-Davidson, and the possibility of his
getting it, Clyde first stared, felt himself tremble the least bit
with excitement, then thanking his advisor for his kindness, went
direct to a green-marbled doorway which opened from the rear of
this drug-store into the lobby of the hotel. Once through it, he
beheld a lobby, the like of which, for all his years but because of
the timorous poverty that had restrained him from exploring such a
world, was more arresting, quite, than anything he had seen before.
It was all so lavish. Under his feet was a checkered black-and-
white marble floor. Above him a coppered and stained and gilded
ceiling. And supporting this, a veritable forest of black marble
columns as highly polished as the floor--glassy smooth. And
between the columns which ranged away toward three separate
entrances, one right, one left and one directly forward toward
Dalrymple Avenue--were lamps, statuary, rugs, palms, chairs,
divans, tete-a-tetes--a prodigal display. In short it was compact,
of all that gauche luxury of appointment which, as some one once
sarcastically remarked, was intended to supply "exclusiveness to
the masses." Indeed, for an essential hotel in a great and
successful American commercial city, it was almost too luxurious.
Its rooms and hall and lobbies and restaurants were entirely too
richly furnished, without the saving grace of either simplicity or
necessity.
As Clyde stood, gazing about the lobby, he saw a large company of
people--some women and children, but principally men as he could
see--either walking or standing about and talking or idling in the
chairs, side by side or alone. And in heavily draped and richly
furnished alcoves where were writing-tables, newspaper files, a
telegraph office, a haberdasher's shop, and a florist's stand, were
other groups. There was a convention of dentists in the city, not
a few of whom, with their wives and children, were gathered here;
but to Clyde, who was not aware of this nor of the methods and
meanings of conventions, this was the ordinary, everyday appearance
of this hotel.
He gazed about in awe and amazement, then remembering the name of
Squires, he began to look for him in his office "under the stairs."
To his right was a grand double-winged black-and-white staircase
which swung in two separate flights and with wide, generous curves
from the main floor to the one above. And between these great
flights was evidently the office of the hotel, for there were many
clerks there. But behind the nearest flight, and close to the wall
through which he had come, was a tall desk, at which stood a young
man of about his own age in a maroon uniform bright with many brass
buttons. And on his head was a small, round, pill-box cap, which
was cocked jauntily over one ear. He was busy making entries with
a lead pencil in a book which lay open before him. Various other
boys about his own age, and uniformed as he was, were seated upon a
long bench near him, or were to be seen darting here and there,
sometimes, returning to this one with a slip of paper or a key or
note of some kind, and then seating themselves upon the bench to
await another call apparently, which seemed to come swiftly enough.
A telephone upon the small desk at which stood the uniformed youth
was almost constantly buzzing, and after ascertaining what was
wanted, this youth struck a small bell before him, or called
"front," to which the first boy on the bench, responded. Once
called, they went hurrying up one or the other stairs or toward one
of the several entrances or elevators, and almost invariably were
to be seen escorting individuals whose bags and suitcases and
overcoats and golf sticks they carried. There were others who
disappeared and returned, carrying drinks on trays or some package
or other, which they were taking to one of the rooms above.
Plainly this was the work that he should be called upon to do,
assuming that he would be so fortunate as to connect himself with
such an institution as this.
And it was all so brisk and enlivening that he wished that he might
be so fortunate as to secure a position here. But would he be?
And where was Mr. Squires? He approached the youth at the small
desk: "Do you know where I will find Mr. Squires?" he asked.
"Here he comes now," replied the youth, looking up and examining
Clyde with keen, gray eyes.
Clyde gazed in the direction indicated, and saw approaching a brisk
and dapper and decidedly sophisticated-looking person of perhaps
twenty-nine or thirty years of age. He was so very slender, keen,
hatchet-faced and well-dressed that Clyde was not only impressed
but overawed at once--a very shrewd and cunning-looking person.
His nose was so long and thin, his eyes so sharp, his lips thin,
and chin pointed.
"Did you see that tall, gray-haired man with the Scotch plaid shawl
who went through here just now?" he paused to say to his assistant
at the desk. The assistant nodded. "Well, they tell me that's the
Earl of Landreil. He just came in this morning with fourteen
trunks and four servants. Can you beat it! He's somebody in
Scotland. That isn't the name he travels under, though, I hear.
He's registered as Mr. Blunt. Can you beat that English stuff?
They can certainly lay on the class, eh?"
"You said it!" replied his assistant deferentially.
He turned for the first time, glimpsing Clyde, but paying no
attention to him. His assistant came to Clyde's aid.
"That young fella there is waiting to see you," he explained.
"You want to see me?" queried the captain of the bellhops, turning
to Clyde, and observing his none-too-good clothes, at the same time
making a comprehensive study of him.
"The gentleman in the drug store," began Clyde, who did not quite
like the looks of the man before him, but was determined to present
himself as agreeably as possible, "was saying--that is, he said
that I might ask you if there was any chance here for me as a bell-
boy. I'm working now at Klinkle's drug store at 7th and Brooklyn,
as a helper, but I'd like to get out of that and he said you might--
that is--he thought you had a place open now." Clyde was so
flustered and disturbed by the cool, examining eyes of the man
before him that he could scarcely get his breath properly, and
swallowed hard.
For the first time in his life, it occurred to him that if he
wanted to get on he ought to insinuate himself into the good graces
of people--do or say something that would make them like him. So
now he contrived an eager, ingratiating smile, which he bestowed on
Mr. Squires, and added: "If you'd like to give me a chance, I'd
try very hard and I'd be very willing."
The man before him merely looked at him coldly, but being the soul
of craft and self-acquisitiveness in a petty way, and rather liking
anybody who had the skill and the will to be diplomatic, he now put
aside an impulse to shake his head negatively, and observed: "But
you haven't had any training in this work."
"No, sir, but couldn't I pick it up pretty quick if I tried hard?"
"Well, let me see," observed the head of the bell-hops, scratching
his head dubiously. "I haven't any time to talk to you now. Come
around Monday afternoon. I'll see you then." He turned on his
heel and walked away.
Clyde, left alone in this fashion, and not knowing just what it
meant, stared, wondering. Was it really true that he had been
invited to come back on Monday? Could it be possible that-- He
turned and hurried out, thrilling from head to toe. The idea! He
had asked this man for a place in the very finest hotel in Kansas
City and he had asked him to come back and see him on Monday. Gee!
what would that mean? Could it be possible that he would be
admitted to such a grand world as this--and that so speedily?
Could it really be?
Chapter 5
The imaginative flights of Clyde in connection with all this--his
dreams of what it might mean for him to be connected with so
glorious an institution--can only be suggested. For his ideas of
luxury were in the main so extreme and mistaken and gauche--mere
wanderings of a repressed and unsatisfied fancy, which as yet had
had nothing but imaginings to feed it.
He went back to his old duties at the drug-store--to his home after
hours in order to eat and sleep--but now for the balance of this
Friday and Saturday and Sunday and Monday until late in the day, he
walked on air, really. His mind was not on what he was doing, and
several times his superior at the drugstore had to remind him to
"wake-up." And after hours, instead of going directly home, he
walked north to the corner of 14th and Baltimore, where stood this
great hotel, and looked at it. There, at midnight even, before
each of the three principal entrances--one facing each of three
streets--was a doorman in a long maroon coat with many buttons and
a high-rimmed and long-visored maroon cap. And inside, behind
looped and fluted French silk curtains, were the still blazing
lights, the a la carte dining-room and the American grill in the
basement near one corner still open. And about them were many
taxis and cars. And there was music always--from somewhere.
After surveying it all this Friday night and again on Saturday and
Sunday morning, he returned on Monday afternoon at the suggestion
of Mr. Squires and was greeted by that individual rather crustily,
for by then he had all but forgotten him. But seeing that at the
moment he was actually in need of help, and being satisfied that
Clyde might be of service, he led him into his small office under
the stair, where, with a very superior manner and much actual
indifference, he proceeded to question him as to his parentage,
where he lived, at what he had worked before and where, what his
father did for a living--a poser that for Clyde, for he was proud
and so ashamed to admit that his parents conducted a mission and
preached on the streets. Instead he replied (which was true at
times) that his father canvassed for a washing machine and wringer
company--and on Sundays preached--a religious revelation, which was
not at all displeasing to this master of boys who were inclined to
be anything but home-loving and conservative. Could he bring a
reference from where he now was? He could.
Mr. Squires proceeded to explain that this hotel was very strict.
Too many boys, on account of the scenes and the show here, the
contact made with undue luxury to which they were not accustomed--
though these were not the words used by Mr. Squires--were inclined
to lose their heads and go wrong. He was constantly being forced
to discharge boys who, because they made a little extra money,
didn't know how to conduct themselves. He must have boys who were
willing, civil, prompt, courteous to everybody. They must be clean
and neat about their persons and clothes and show up promptly--on
the dot--and in good condition for the work every day. And any boy
who got to thinking that because he made a little money he could
flirt with anybody or talk back, or go off on parties at night, and
then not show up on time or too tired to be quick and bright,
needn't think that he would be here long. He would be fired, and
that promptly. He would not tolerate any nonsense. That must be
understood now, once and for all.
Clyde nodded assent often and interpolated a few eager "yes, sirs"
and "no, sirs," and assured him at the last that it was the
furtherest thing from his thoughts and temperament to dream of any
such high crimes and misdemeanors as he had outlined. Mr. Squires
then proceeded to explain that this hotel only paid fifteen dollars
a month and board--at the servant's table in the basement--to any
bell-boy at any time. But, and this information came as a most
amazing revelation to Clyde, every guest for whom any of these boys
did anything--carried a bag or delivered a pitcher of water or did
anything--gave him a tip, and often quite a liberal one--a dime,
fifteen cents, a quarter, sometimes more. And these tips, as Mr.
Squires explained, taken all together, averaged from four to six
dollars a day--not less and sometimes more--most amazing pay, as
Clyde now realized. His heart gave an enormous bound and was near
to suffocating him at the mere mention of so large a sum. From
four to six dollars! Why, that was twenty-eight to forty-two
dollars a week! He could scarcely believe it. And that in
addition to the fifteen dollars a month and board. And there was
no charge, as Mr. Squires now explained, for the handsome uniforms
the boys wore. But it might not be worn or taken out of the place.
His hours, as Mr. Squires now proceeded to explain, would be as
follows: On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays, he was to
work from six in the morning until noon, and then, with six hours
off, from six in the evening until midnight. On Tuesdays,
Thursdays and Saturdays, he need only work from noon until six,
thus giving him each alternate afternoon or evening to himself.
But all his meals were to be taken outside his working hours and he
was to report promptly in uniform for line-up and inspection by his
superior exactly ten minutes before the regular hours of his work
began at each watch.
As for some other things which were in his mind at the time, Mr.
Squires said nothing. There were others, as he knew, who would
speak for him. Instead he went on to add, and then quite
climactically for Clyde at that time, who had been sitting as one
in a daze: "I suppose you are ready to go to work now, aren't
you?"
"Yes, sir, yes, sir," he replied.
"Very good!" Then he got up and opened the door which had shut
them in. "Oscar," he called to a boy seated at the head of the
bell-boy bench, to which a tallish, rather oversized youth in a
tight, neat-looking uniform responded with alacrity. "Take this
young man here--Clyde Griffiths is your name, isn't it?--up to the
wardrobe on the twelfth and see if Jacobs can find a suit to fit.
But if he can't tell him to alter it by to-morrow. I think the one
Silsbee wore ought to be about right for him."
Then he turned to his assistant at the desk who was at the moment
looking on. "I'm giving him a trial, anyhow," he commented. "Have
one of the boys coach him a little to-night or whenever he starts
in. Go ahead, Oscar," he called to the boy in charge of Clyde.
"He's green at this stuff, but I think he'll do," he added to his
assistant, as Clyde and Oscar disappeared in the direction of one
of the elevators. Then he walked off to have Clyde's name entered
upon the payroll.
In the meantime, Clyde, in tow of this new mentor, was listening to
a line of information such as never previously had come to his ears
anywhere.
"You needn't be frightened, if you ain't never worked at anything
like dis before," began this youth, whose last name was Hegglund as
Clyde later learned, and who hailed from Jersey City, New Jersey,
exotic lingo, gestures and all. He was tall, vigorous, sandy-
haired, freckled, genial and voluble. They had entered upon an
elevator labeled "employees." "It ain't so hard. I got my first
job in Buffalo t'ree years ago and I never knowed a t'ing about it
up to dat time. All you gotta do is to watch de udders an' see how
dey do, see. Yu get dat, do you?"
Clyde, whose education was not a little superior to that of his
guide, commented quite sharply in his own mind on the use of such
words as "knowed," and "gotta"--also upon "t'ing," "dat," "udders,"
and so on, but so grateful was he for any courtesy at this time
that he was inclined to forgive his obviously kindly mentor
anything for his geniality.
"Watch whoever's doin' anyt'ing, at first, see, till you git to
know, see. Dat's de way. When de bell rings, if you're at de head
of de bench, it's your turn, see, an' you jump up and go quick.
Dey like you to be quick around here, see. An' whenever you see
any one come in de door or out of an elevator wit a bag, an' you're
at de head of de bench, you jump, wedder de captain rings de bell
or calls 'front' or not. Sometimes he's busy or ain't lookin' an'
he wants you to do dat, see. Look sharp, cause if you don't get no
bags, you don't get no tips, see. Everybody dat has a bag or
anyt'ing has to have it carried for 'em, unless dey won't let you
have it, see.
"But be sure and wait somewhere near de desk for whoever comes in
until dey sign up for a room," he rattled on as they ascended in
the elevator. "Most every one takes a room. Den de clerk'll give
you de key an' after dat all you gotta do is to carry up de bags to
de room. Den all you gotta do is to turn on de lights in de
batroom and closet, if dere is one, so dey'll know where dey are,
see. An' den raise de curtains in de day time or lower 'em at
night, an' see if dere's towels in de room, so you can tell de maid
if dere ain't, and den if dey don't give you no tip, you gotta go,
only most times, unless you draw a stiff, all you gotta do is hang
back a little--make a stall, see--fumble wit de door-key or try de
transom, see. Den, if dey're any good, dey'll hand you a tip. If
dey don't, you're out, dat's all, see. You can't even look as
dough you was sore, dough--nottin' like dat, see. Den you come
down an' unless dey wants ice-water or somepin, you're troo, see.
It's back to de bench, quick. Dere ain't much to it. Only you
gotta be quick all de time, see, and not let any one get by you
comin' or goin'--dat's de main t'ing.
"An' after dey give you your uniform, an' you go to work, don't
forgit to give de captain a dollar after every watch before you
leave, see--two dollars on de day you has two watches, and a dollar
on de day you has one, see? Dat's de way it is here. We work
togedder like dat, an' you gotta do dat if you wanta hold your job.
But dat's all. After dat all de rest is yours."
Clyde saw.
A part of his twenty-four or thirty-two dollars as he figured it
was going glimmering, apparently--eleven or twelve all told--but
what of it! Would there not be twelve or fifteen or even more
left? And there were his meals and his uniform. Kind Heaven!
What a realization of paradise! What a consummation of luxury!
Mr. Hegglund of Jersey City escorted him to the twelfth floor and
into a room where they found on guard a wizened and grizzled little
old man of doubtful age and temperament, who forthwith ouffitted
Clyde with a suit that was so near a fit that, without further
orders, it was not deemed necessary to alter it. And trying on
various caps, there was one that fitted him--a thing that sat most
rakishly over one ear--only, as Hegglund informed him, "You'll have
to get dat hair of yours cut. Better get it clipped behind. It's
too long." And with that Clyde himself had been in mental
agreement before he spoke. His hair certainly did not look right
in the new cap. He hated it now. And going downstairs, and
reporting to Mr. Whipple, Mr. Squires' assistant, the latter had
said: "Very well. It fits all right, does it? Well, then, you go
on here at six. Report at five-thirty and be here in your uniform
at five-forty-five for inspection."
Whereupon Clyde, being advised by Hegglund to go then and there to
get his uniform and take it to the dressing-room in the basement,
and get his locker from the locker-man, he did so, and then hurried
most nervously out--first to get a hair-cut and afterwards to
report to his family on his great luck.
He was to be a bell-boy in the great Hotel Green-Davidson. He was
to wear a uniform and a handsome one. He was to make--but he did
not tell his mother at first what he was to make, truly--but more
than eleven or twelve at first, anyhow, he guessed--he could not be
sure. For now, all at once, he saw economic independence ahead for
himself, if not for his family, and he did not care to complicate
it with any claims which a confession as to his real salary would
most certainly inspire. But he did say that he was to have his
meals free--because that meant eating away from home, which was
what he wished. And in addition he was to live and move always in
the glorious atmosphere of this hotel--not to have to go home ever
before twelve, if he did not wish--to have good clothes--
interesting company, maybe--a good time, gee!
And as he hurried on about his various errands now, it occurred to
him as a final and shrewd and delicious thought that he need not go
home on such nights as he wished to go to a theater or anything
like that. He could just stay down-town and say he had to work.
And that with free meals and good clothes--think of that!
The mere thought of all this was so astonishing and entrancing that
he could not bring himself to think of it too much. He must wait
and see. He must wait and see just how much he would make here in
this perfectly marvelous-marvelous realm.
Chapter 6
And as conditions stood, the extraordinary economic and social
inexperience of the Griffiths--Asa and Elvira--dovetailed all too
neatly with his dreams. For neither Asa nor Elvira had the least
knowledge of the actual character of the work upon which he was
about to enter, scarcely any more than he did, or what it might
mean to him morally, imaginatively, financially, or in any other
way. For neither of them had ever stopped in a hotel above the
fourth class in all their days. Neither one had ever eaten in a
restaurant of a class that catered to other than individuals of
their own low financial level. That there could be any other forms
of work or contact than those involved in carrying the bags of
guests to and from the door of a hotel to its office, and back
again, for a boy of Clyde's years and temperament, never occurred
to them. And it was naively assumed by both that the pay for such
work must of necessity be very small anywhere, say five or six
dollars a week, and so actually below Clyde's deserts and his
years.
And in view of this, Mrs. Griffiths, who was more practical than
her husband at all times, and who was intensely interested in
Clyde's economic welfare, as well as that of her other children,
was actually wondering why Clyde should of a sudden become so
enthusiastic about changing to this new situation, which, according
to his own story, involved longer hours and not so very much more
pay, if any. To be sure, he had already suggested that it might
lead to some superior position in the hotel, some clerkship or
other, but he did not know when that would be, and the other had
promised rather definite fulfillment somewhat earlier--as to money,
anyhow.
But seeing him rush in on Monday afternoon and announce that he had
secured the place and that forthwith he must change his tie and
collar and get his hair cut and go back and report, she felt better
about it. For never before had she seen him so enthusiastic about
anything, and it was something to have him more content with
himself--not so moody, as he was at times.
Yet, the hours which he began to maintain now--from six in the
morning until midnight--with only an occasional early return on
such evenings as he chose to come home when he was not working--and
when he troubled to explain that he had been let off a little
early--together with a certain eager and restless manner--a desire
to be out and away from his home at nearly all such moments as he
was not in bed or dressing or undressing, puzzled his mother and
Asa, also. The hotel! The hotel! He must always hurry off to the
hotel, and all that he had to report was that he liked it ever so
much, and that he was doing all right, he thought. It was nicer
work than working around a soda fountain, and he might be making
more money pretty soon--he couldn't tell--but as for more than that
he either wouldn't or couldn't say.
And all the time the Griffiths--father and mother--were feeling
that because of the affair in connection with Esta, they should
really be moving away from Kansas City--should go to Denver. And
now more than ever, Clyde was insisting that he did not want to
leave Kansas City. They might go, but he had a pretty good job now
and wanted to stick to it. And if they left, he could get a room
somewhere--and would be all right--a thought which did not appeal
to them at all.
But in the meantime what an enormous change in Clyde's life.
Beginning with that first evening, when at 5:45, he appeared before
Mr. Whipple, his immediate superior, and was approved--not only
because of the fit of his new uniform, but for his general
appearance--the world for him had changed entirely. Lined up with
seven others in the servants' hall, immediately behind the general
offices in the lobby, and inspected by Mr. Whipple, the squad of
eight marched at the stroke of six through a door that gave into
the lobby on the other side of the staircase from where stood Mr.
Whipple's desk, then about and in front of the general registration
office to the long bench on the other side. A Mr. Barnes, who
alternated with Mr. Whipple, then took charge of the assistant
captain's desk, and the boys seated themselves--Clyde at the foot--
only to be called swiftly and in turn to perform this, that and the
other service--while the relieved squad of Mr. Whipple was led away
into the rear servants' hall as before, where they disbanded.
"Cling!"
The bell on the room clerk's desk had sounded and the first boy was
going.
"Cling!" It sounded again and a second boy leaped to his feet.
"Front!"--"Center door!" called Mr. Barnes, and a third boy was
skidding down the long marble floor toward that entrance to seize
the bags of an incoming guest, whose white whiskers and youthful,
bright tweed suit were visible to Clyde's uninitiated eyes a
hundred feet away. A mysterious and yet sacred vision--a tip!
"Front!" It was Mr. Barnes calling again. "See what 913 wants--
ice-water, I guess." And a fourth boy was gone.
Clyde, steadily moving up along the bench and adjoining Hegglund,
who had been detailed to instruct him a little, was all eyes and
ears and nerves. He was so tense that he could hardly breathe, and
fidgeted and jerked until finally Hegglund exclaimed: "Now, don't
get excited. Just hold your horses will yuh? You'll be all right.
You're jist like I was when I begun--all noives. But dat ain't de
way. Easy's what you gotta be aroun' here. An' you wants to look
as dough you wasn't seein' nobody nowhere--just lookin' to what ya
got before ya."
"Front!" Mr. Barnes again. Clyde was scarcely able to keep his
mind on what Hegglund was saying. "115 wants some writing paper
and pens." A fifth boy had gone.
"Where do you get writing paper and pens if they want 'em?" He
pleaded of his imtructor, as one who was about to die might plead.
"Off'n de key desk, I toldja. He's to de left over dere. He'll
give 'em to ya. An' you gits ice-water in de hall we lined up in
just a minute ago--at dat end over dere, see--you'll see a little
door. You gotta give dat guy in dere a dime oncet in a while or
he'll get sore."
"Cling!" The room clerk's bell. A sixth boy had gone without a
word to supply some order in that direction.
"And now remember," continued Hegglund, seeing that he himself was
next, and cautioning him for the last time, "if dey wants drinks of
any kind, you get 'em in de grill over dere off'n de dining-room.
An' be sure and git de names of de drinks straight or dey'll git
sore. An' if it's a room you're showing, pull de shades down to-
night and turn on de lights. An' if it's anyt'ing from de dinin'-
room you gotta see de headwaiter--he gets de tip, see."
"Front!" He was up and gone.
And Clyde was number one. And number four was already seating
himself again by his side--but looking shrewdly around to see if
anybody was wanted anywhere.
"Front!" It was Mr. Barnes. Clyde was up and before him, grateful
that it was no one coming in with bags, but worried for fear it
might be something that he would not understand or could not do
quickly.
"See what 882 wants." Clyde was off toward one of the two
elevators marked, "employees," the proper one to use, he thought,
because he had been taken to the twelfth floor that way, but
another boy stepping out from one of the fast passenger elevators
cautioned him as to his mistake.
"Goin' to a room?" he called. "Use the guest elevators. Them's
for the servants or anybody with bundles."
Clyde hastened to cover his mistake. "Eight," he called. There
being no one else on the elevator with them, the Negro elevator boy
in charge of the car saluted him at once.
"You'se new, ain't you? I ain't seen you around her befo'."
"Yes, I just came on," replied Clyde.
"Well, you won't hate it here," commented this youth in the most
friendly way. "No one hates this house, I'll say. Eight did you
say?" He stopped the car and Clyde stepped out. He was too
nervous to think to ask the direction and now began looking at room
numbers, only to decide after a moment that he was in the wrong
corridor. The soft brown carpet under his feet; the soft, cream-
tinted walls; the snow-white bowl lights in the ceiling--all seemed
to him parts of a perfection and a social superiority which was
almost unbelievable--so remote from all that he had ever known.
And finally, finding 882, he knocked timidly and was greeted after
a moment by a segment of a very stout and vigorous body in a blue
and white striped union suit and a related segment of a round and
florid head in which was set one eye and some wrinkles to one side
of it.
"Here's a dollar bill, son," said the eye seemingly--and now a hand
appeared holding a paper dollar. It was fat and red. "You go out
to a haberdasher's and get me a pair of garters--Boston Garters--
silk--and hurry back."
"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, and took the dollar. The door closed
and he found himself hustling along the hall toward the elevator,
wondering what a haberdasher's was. As old as he was--seventeen--
the name was new to him. He had never even heard it before, or
noticed it at least. If the man had said a "gents' furnishing
store," he would have understood at once, but now here he was told
to go to a haberdasher's and he did not know what it was. A cold
sweat burst out upon his forehead. His knees trembled. The devil!
What would he do now? Could he ask any one, even Hegglund, and not
seem--
He pushed the elevator button. The car began to descend. A
haberdasher. A haberdasher. Suddenly a sane thought reached him.
Supposing he didn't know what a haberdasher was? After all the man
wanted a pair of silk Boston garters. Where did one get silk
Boston garters--at a store, of course, a place where they sold
things for men. Certainly. A gents' furnishing store. He would
run out to a store. And on the way down, noting another friendly
Negro in charge, he asked: "Do you know if there's a gents'
furnishing store anywhere around here?"
"One in the building, captain, right outside the south lobby,"
replied the Negro, and Clyde hurried there, greatly relieved. Yet
he felt odd and strange in his close-fitting uniform and his
peculiar hat. All the time he was troubled by the notion that his
small, round, tight-fitting hat might fall off. And he kept
pressing it furtively and yet firmly down. And bustling into the
haberdasher's, which was blazing with lights outside, he exclaimed,
"I want to get a pair of Boston silk garters."
"All right, son, here you are," replied a sleek, short man with
bright, bald head, pink face and gold-rimmed glasses. "For some
one in the hotel, I presume? Well, we'll make that seventy-five
cents, and here's a dime for you," he remarked as he wrapped up the
package and dropped the dollar in the cash register. "I always
like to do the right thing by you boys in there because I know you
come to me whenever you can."
Clyde took the dime and the package, not knowing quite what to
think. The garters must be seventy-five cents--he said so. Hence
only twenty-five cents need to be returned to the man. Then the
dime was his. And now, maybe--would the man really give him
another tip?
He hurried back into the hotel and up to the elevators. The
strains of a string orchestra somewhere were filling the lobby with
delightful sounds. People were moving here and there--so well-
dressed, so much at ease, so very different from most of the people
in the streets or anywhere, as he saw it.
An elevator door flew open. Various guests entered. Then Clyde
and another bell-boy who gave him an interested glance. At the
sixth floor the boy departed. At the eighth Clyde and an old lady
stepped forth. He hurried to the door of his guest and tapped.
The man opened it, somewhat more fully dressed than before. He had
on a pair of trousers and was shaving.
"Back, eh," he called.
"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, handing him the package and change. "He
said it was seventy-five cents."
"He's a damned robber, but you can keep the change, just the same,"
he replied, handing him the quarter and closing the door. Clyde
stood there, quite spellbound for the fraction of a second.
"Thirty-five cents"--he thought--"thirty-five cents." And for one
little short errand. Could that really be the way things went
here? It couldn't be, really. It wasn't possible--not always.
And then, his feet sinking in the soft nap of the carpet, his hand
in one pocket clutching the money, he felt as if he could squeal or
laugh out loud. Why, thirty-five cents--and for a little service
like that. This man had given him a quarter and the other a dime
and he hadn't done anything at all.
He hurried from the car at the bottom--the strains of the orchestra
once more fascinated him, the wonder of so well-dressed a throng
thrilling him--and made his way to the bench from which he had
first departed.
And following this he had been called to carry the three bags and
two umbrellas of an aged farmer-like couple, who had engaged a
parlor, bedroom and bath on the fifth floor. En route they kept
looking at him, as he could see, but said nothing. Yet once in
their room, and after he had promptly turned on the lights near the
door, lowered the blinds and placed the bags upon the bag racks,
the middle-aged and rather awkward husband--a decidedly solemn and
bewhiskered person--studied him and finally observed: "Young
fella, you seem to be a nice, brisk sort of boy--rather better than
most we've seen so far, I must say."
"I certainly don't think that hotels are any place for boys,"
chirped up the wife of his bosom--a large and rotund person, who by
this time was busily employed inspecting an adjoining room. "I
certainly wouldn't want any of my boys to work in 'em--the way
people act."
"But here, young man," went on the elder, laying off his overcoat
and fishing in his trousers pocket. "You go down and get me three
or four evening papers if there are that many and a pitcher of ice-
water, and I'll give you fifteen cents when you get back."
"This hotel's better'n the one in Omaha, Pa," added the wife
sententiously. "It's got nicer carpets and curtains."
And as green as Clyde was, he could not help smiling secretly.
Openly, however, he preserved a masklike solemnity, seemingly
effacing all facial evidence of thought, and took the change and
went out. And in a few moments he was back with the ice-water and
all the evening papers and departed smilingly with his fifteen
cents.
But this, in itself, was but a beginning in so far as this
particular evening was concerned, for he was scarcely seated upon
the bench again, before he was called to room 529, only to be sent
to the bar for drinks--two ginger ales and two syphons of soda--and
this by a group of smartly-dressed young men and girls who were
laughing and chattering in the room, one of whom opened the door
just wide enough to instruct him as to what was wanted. But
because of a mirror over the mantel, he could see the party and one
pretty girl in a white suit and cap, sitting on the edge of a chair
in which reclined a young man who had his arm about her.
Clyde stared, even while pretending not to. And in his state of
mind, this sight was like looking through the gates of Paradise.
Here were young fellows and girls in this room, not so much older
than himself, laughing and talking and drinking even--not ice-cream
sodas and the like, but such drinks no doubt as his mother and
father were always speaking against as leading to destruction, and
apparently nothing was thought of it.
He bustled down to the bar, and having secured the drinks and a
charge slip, returned--and was paid--a dollar and a half for the
drinks and a quarter for himself. And once more he had a glimpse
of the appealing scene. Only now one of the couples was dancing to
a tune sung and whistled by the other two.
But what interested him as much as the visits to and glimpses of
individuals in the different rooms, was the moving panorama of the
main lobby--the character of the clerks behind the main desk--room
clerk, key clerk, mail clerk, cashier and assistant cashier. And
the various stands about the place--flower stand, news stand, cigar
stand, telegraph office, taxicab office, and all manned by
individuals who seemed to him curiously filled with the atmosphere
of this place. And then around and between all these walking or
sitting were such imposing men and women, young men and girls all
so fashionably dressed, all so ruddy and contented looking. And
the cars or other vehicles in which some of them appeared about
dinner time and later. It was possible for him to see them in the
flare of the lights outside. The wraps, furs, and other belongings
in which they appeared, or which were often carried by these other
boys and himself across the great lobby and into the cars or the
dining-room or the several elevators. And they were always of such
gorgeous textures, as Clyde saw them. Such grandeur. This, then,
most certainly was what it meant to be rich, to be a person of
consequence in the world--to have money. It meant that you did
what you pleased. That other people, like himself, waited upon
you. That you possessed all of these luxuries. That you went how,
where and when you pleased.
Chapter 7
And so, of all the influences which might have come to Clyde at
this time, either as an aid or an injury to his development,
perhaps the most dangerous for him, considering his temperament,
was this same Green-Davidson, than which no more materially
affected or gaudy a realm could have been found anywhere between
the two great American mountain ranges. Its darkened and cushioned
tea-room, so somber and yet tinted so gayly with colored lights,
was an ideal rendezvous, not only for such inexperienced and eager
flappers of the period who were to be taken by a show of luxury,
but also for those more experienced and perhaps a little faded
beauties, who had a thought for their complexions and the
advantages of dim and uncertain lights. Also, like most hotels of
its kind, it was frequented by a certain type of eager and
ambitious male of not certain age or station in life, who counted
upon his appearance here at least once, if not twice a day, at
certain brisk and interesting hours, to establish for himself the
reputation of man-about-town, or rounder, or man of wealth, or
taste, or attractiveness, or all.
And it was not long after Clyde had begun to work here that he was
informed by these peculiar boys with whom he was associated, one or
more of whom was constantly seated with him upon the "hop-bench,"
as they called it, as to the evidence and presence even here--it
was not long before various examples of the phenomena were pointed
out to him--of a certain type of social pervert, morally
disarranged and socially taboo, who sought to arrest and interest
boys of their type, in order to come into some form of illicit
relationship with them, which at first Clyde could not grasp. The
mere thought of it made him ill. And yet some of these boys, as he
was now informed--a certain youth in particular, who was not on the
same watch with him at this time--were supposed to be of the mind
that "fell for it," as one of the other youths phrased it.
And the talk and the palaver that went on in the lobby and the
grill, to say nothing of the restaurants and rooms, were sufficient
to convince any inexperienced and none-too-discerning mind that the
chief business of life for any one with a little money or social
position was to attend a theater, a ball-game in season, or to
dance, motor, entertain friends at dinner, or to travel to New
York, Europe, Chicago, California. And there had been in the lives
of most of these boys such a lack of anything that approached
comfort or taste, let alone luxury, that not unlike Clyde, they
were inclined to not only exaggerate the import of all that they
saw, but to see in this sudden transition an opportunity to partake
of it all. Who were these people with money, and what had they
done that they should enjoy so much luxury, where others as good
seemingly as themselves had nothing? And wherein did these latter
differ so greatly from the successful? Clyde could not see. Yet
these thoughts flashed through the minds of every one of these
boys.
At the same time the admiration, to say nothing of the private
overtures of a certain type of woman or girl, who inhibited perhaps
by the social milieu in which she found herself, but having means,
could invade such a region as this, and by wiles and smiles and the
money she possessed, ingratiate herself into the favor of some of
the more attractive of these young men here, was much commented
upon.
Thus a youth named Ratterer--a hall-boy here--sitting beside him
the very next afternoon, seeing a trim, well-formed blonde woman of
about thirty enter with a small dog upon her arm, and much bedecked
with furs, first nudged him and, with a faint motion of the head
indicating her vicinity, whispered, "See her? There's a swift one.
I'll tell you about her sometime when I have time. Gee, the things
she don't do!"
"What about her?" asked Clyde, keenly curious, for to him she
seemed exceedingly beautiful, most fascinating.
"Oh, nothing, except she's been in with about eight different men
around here since I've been here. She fell for Doyle"--another
hall-boy whom by this time Clyde had already observed as being the
quintessence of Chesterfieldian grace and airs and looks, a youth
to imitate--"for a while, but now she's got some one else."
"Really?" inquired Clyde, very much astonished and wondering if
such luck would ever come to him.
"Surest thing you know," went on Ratterer. "She's a bird that way--
never gets enough. Her husband, they tell me, has a big lumber
business somewhere over in Kansas, but they don't live together no
more. She has one of the best suites on the sixth, but she ain't
in it half the time. The maid told me."
This same Ratterer, who was short and stocky but good-looking and
smiling, was so smooth and bland and generally agreeable that Clyde
was instantly drawn to him and wished to know him better. And
Ratterer reciprocated that feeling, for he had the notion that
Clyde was innocent and inexperienced and that he would like to do
some little thing for him if he could.
The conversation was interrupted by a service call, and never
resumed about this particular woman, but the effect on Clyde was
sharp. The woman was pleasing to look upon and exceedingly well-
groomed, her skin clear, her eyes bright. Could what Ratterer had
been telling him really be true? She was so pretty. He sat and
gazed, a vision of something which he did not care to acknowledge
even to himself tingling the roots of his hair.
And then the temperaments and the philosophy of these boys--
Kinsella, short and thick and smooth-faced and a little dull, as
Clyde saw it, but good-looking and virile, and reported to be a
wizard at gambling, who, throughout the first three days at such
times as other matters were not taking his attention, had been good
enough to continue Hegglund's instructions in part. He was a more
suave, better spoken youth than Hegglund, though not so attractive
as Ratterer, Clyde thought, without the latter's sympathetic
outlook, as Clyde saw it.
And again, there was Doyle--Eddie--whom Clyde found intensely
interesting from the first, and of whom he was not a little
jealous, because he was so very good-looking, so trim of figure,
easy and graceful of gesture, and with so soft and pleasing a
voice. He went about with an indescribable air which seemed to
ingratiate him instantly with all with whom he came in contact--the
clerks behind the counter no less than the strangers who entered
and asked this or that question of him. His shoes and collar were
so clean and trim, and his hair cut and brushed and oiled after a
fashion which would have become a moving-picture actor. From the
first Clyde was utterly fascinated by his taste in the matter of
dress--the neatest of brown suits, caps, with ties and socks to
match. He should wear a brown-belted coat just like that. He
should have a brown cap. And a suit as well cut and attractive.
Similarly, a not unrelated and yet different effect was produced by
that same youth who had first introduced Clyde to the work here--
Hegglund--who was one of the older and more experienced bell-hops,
and of considerable influence with the others because of his genial
and devil-may-care attitude toward everything, outside the exact
line of his hotel duties. Hegglund was neither as schooled nor as
attractive as some of the others, yet by reason of a most avid and
dynamic disposition--plus a liberality where money and pleasure
were concerned, and a courage, strength and daring which neither
Doyle nor Ratterer nor Kinsella could match--a strength and daring
almost entirely divested of reason at times--he interested and
charmed Clyde immensely. As he himself related to Clyde, after a
time, he was the son of a Swedish journeyman baker who some years
before in Jersey City had deserted his mother and left her to make
her way as best she could. In consequence neither Oscar nor his
sister Martha had had any too much education or decent social
experience of any kind. On the contrary, at the age of fourteen he
had left Jersey City in a box car and had been making his way ever
since as best he could. And like Clyde, also, he was insanely
eager for all the pleasures which he had imagined he saw swirling
around him, and was for prosecuting adventures in every direction,
lacking, however, the nervous fear of consequence which
characterized Clyde. Also he had a friend, a youth by the name of
Sparser, somewhat older than himself, who was chauffeur to a
wealthy citizen of Kansas City, and who occasionally managed to
purloin a car and so accommodate Hegglund in the matter of brief
outings here and there; which courtesy, unconventional and
dishonest though it might be, still caused Hegglund to feel that he
was a wonderful fellow and of much more importance than some of
these others, and to lend him in their eyes a luster which had
little of the reality which it suggested to them.
Not being as attractive as Doyle, it was not so easy for him to win
the attention of girls, and those he did succeed in interesting
were not of the same charm or import by any means. Yet he was
inordinately proud of such contacts as he could effect and not a
little given to boasting in regard to them, a thing which Clyde
took with more faith than would most, being of less experience.
For this reason Hegglund liked Clyde, almost from the very first,
sensing in him perhaps a pleased and willing auditor.
So, finding Clyde on the bench beside him from time to time, he had
proceeded to continue his instructions. Kansas City was a fine
place to be if you knew how to live. He had worked in other
cities--Buffalo, Cleveland, Detroit, St. Louis--before he came
here, but he had not liked any of them any better, principally--
which was a fact which he did not trouble to point out at the time--
because he had not done as well in those places as he had here.
He had been a dishwasher, car-cleaner, plumber's helper and several
other things before finally, in Buffalo, he had been inducted into
the hotel business. And then a youth, working there, but who was
now no longer here, had persuaded him to come on to Kansas City.
But here:
"Say--de tips in dis hotel is as big as you'll git anywhere, I know
dat. An' what's more, dey's nice people workin' here. You do your
bit by dem and dey'll do right by you. I been here now over a year
an' I ain't got no complaint. Dat guy Squires is all right if you
don't cause him no trouble. He's hard, but he's got to look out
for hisself, too--dat's natural. But he don't fire nobody unless
he's got a reason. I know dat, too. And as for de rest dere's no
trouble. An' when your work's troo, your time's your own. Dese
fellows here are good sports, all o' dem. Dey're no four-flushers
an' no tightwads, eider. Whenever dere's anyting on--a good time
or sumpin' like dat, dey're on--nearly all of 'em. An' dey don't
mooch or grouch in case tings don't work out right, neider. I know
dat, cause I been wit 'em now, lots o' times."
He gave Clyde the impression that these youths were all the best of
friends--close--all but Doyle, who was a little standoffish, but
not coldly so. "He's got too many women chasin' him, dat's all."
Also that they went here and there together on occasion--to a dance
hall, a dinner, a certain gambling joint down near the river, a
certain pleasure resort--"Kate Sweeney's"--where were some peaches
of girls--and so on and so forth, a world of such information as
had never previously been poured into Clyde's ear, and that set him
meditating, dreaming, doubting, worrying and questioning as to the
wisdom, charm, delight to be found in all this--also the
permissibility of it in so far as he was concerned. For had he not
been otherwise instructed in regard to all this all his life long?
There was a great thrill and yet a great question involved in all
to which he was now listening so attentively.
Again there was Thomas Ratterer, who was of a type which at first
glance, one would have said, could scarcely prove either inimical
or dangerous to any of the others. He was not more than five feet
four, plump, with black hair and olive skin, and with an eye that
was as limpid as water and as genial as could be. He, too, as
Clyde learned after a time, was of a nondescript family, and so had
profited by no social or financial advantages of any kind. But he
had a way, and was liked by all of these youths--so much so that he
was consulted about nearly everything. A native of Wichita,
recently moved to Kansas City, he and his sister were the principal
support of a widowed mother. During their earlier and formative
years, both had seen their very good-natured and sympathetic
mother, of whom they were honestly fond, spurned and abused by a
faithless husband. There had been times when they were quite
without food. On more than one occasion they had been ejected for
non-payment of rent. None too continuously Tommy and his sister
had been maintained in various public schools. Finally, at the age
of fourteen he had decamped to Kansas City, where he had secured
different odd jobs, until he succeeded in connecting himself with
the Green-Davidson, and was later joined by his mother and sister
who had removed from Wichita to Kansas City to be with him.
But even more than by the luxury of the hotel or these youths, whom
swiftly and yet surely he was beginning to decipher, Clyde was
impressed by the downpour of small change that was tumbling in upon
him and making a small lump in his right-hand pants pocket--dimes,
nickels, quarters and half-dollars even, which increased and
increased even on the first day until by nine o'clock he already
had over four dollars in his pocket, and by twelve, at which hour
he went off duty, he had over six and a half--as much as previously
he had earned in a week.
And of all this, as he then knew, he need only hand Mr. Squires
one--no more, Hegglund had said--and the rest, five dollars and a
half, for one evening's interesting--yes, delightful and
fascinating--work, belonged to himself. He could scarcely believe
it. It seemed fantastic, Aladdinish, really. Nevertheless, at
twelve, exactly, of that first day a gong had sounded somewhere--a
shuffle of feet had been heard and three boys had appeared--one to
take Barnes' place at the desk, the other two to answer calls. And
at the command of Barnes, the eight who were present were ordered
to rise, right dress and march away. And in the hall outside, and
just as he was leaving, Clyde approached Mr. Squires and handed him
a dollar in silver. "That's right," Mr. Squires remarked. No
more. Then, Clyde, along with the others, descended to his locker,
changed his clothes and walked out into the darkened streets, a
sense of luck and a sense of responsibility as to future luck so
thrilling him as to make him rather tremulous--giddy, even.
To think that now, at last, he actually had such a place. To think
that he could earn this much every day, maybe. He began to walk
toward his home, his first thought being that he must sleep well
and so be fit for his duties in the morning. But thinking that he
would not need to return to the hotel before 11:30 the next day, he
wandered into an all-night beanery to have a cup of coffee and some
pie. And now all he was thinking was that he would only need to
work from noon until six, when he should be free until the
following morning at six. And then he would make more money.
A lot of it to spend on himself.
Chapter 8
The thing that most interested Clyde at first was how, if at all,
he was to keep the major portion of all this money he was making
for himself. For ever since he had been working and earning money,
it had been assumed that he would contribute a fair portion of all
that he received--at least three-fourths of the smaller salaries he
had received up to this time--toward the upkeep of the home. But
now, if he announced that he was receiving at least twenty-five
dollars a week and more--and this entirely apart from the salary of
fifteen a month and board--his parents would assuredly expect him
to pay ten or twelve.
But so long had he been haunted by the desire to make himself as
attractive looking as any other well-dressed boy that, now that he
had the opportunity, he could not resist the temptation to equip
himself first and as speedily as possible. Accordingly, he decided
to say to his mother that all of the tips he received aggregated no
more than a dollar a day. And, in order to give himself greater
freedom of action in the matter of disposing of his spare time, he
announced that frequently, in addition to the long hours demanded
of him every other day, he was expected to take the place of other
boys who were sick or set to doing other things. And also, he
explained that the management demanded of all boys that they look
well outside as well as inside the hotel. He could not long be
seen coming to the hotel in the clothes that he now wore. Mr.
Squires, he said, had hinted as much. But, as if to soften the
blow, one of the boys at the hotel had told him of a place where he
could procure quite all the things that he needed on time.
And so unsophisticated was his mother in these matters that she
believed him.
But that was not all. He was now daily in contact with a type of
youth who, because of his larger experience with the world and with
the luxuries and vices of such a life as this, had already been
inducted into certain forms of libertinism and vice even which up
to this time were entirely foreign to Clyde's knowledge and set him
agape with wonder and at first with even a timorous distaste.
Thus, as Hegglund had pointed out, a certain percentage of this
group, of which Clyde was now one, made common cause in connection
with quite regular adventures which usually followed their monthly
pay night. These adventures, according to their moods and their
cash at the time, led them usually either to one of two rather
famous and not too respectable all-night restaurants. In groups,
as he gathered by degrees from hearing them talk, they were pleased
to indulge in occasional late showy suppers with drinks, after
which they were wont to go to either some flashy dance hall of the
downtown section to pick up a girl, or that failing as a source of
group interest, to visit some notorious--or as they would have
deemed it reputed--brothel, very frequently camouflaged as a
boarding house, where for much less than the amount of cash in
their possession they could, as they often boasted, "have any girl
in the house." And here, of course, because of their known youth,
ignorance, liberality, and uniform geniality and good looks, they
were made much of, as a rule, being made most welcome by the
various madames and girls of these places who sought, for
commercial reasons of course, to interest them to come again.
And so starved had been Clyde's life up to this time and so eager
was he for almost any form of pleasure, that from the first he
listened with all too eager ears to any account of anything that
spelled adventure or pleasure. Not that he approved of these types
of adventures. As a matter of fact at first it offended and
depressed him, seeing as he did that it ran counter to all he had
heard and been told to believe these many years. Nevertheless so
sharp a change and relief from the dreary and repressed work in
which he had been brought up was it, that he could not help
thinking of all this with an itch for the variety and color it
seemed to suggest. He listened sympathetically and eagerly, even
while at times he was mentally disapproving of what he heard. And
seeing him so sympathetic and genial, first one and then another of
these youths made overtures to him to go here, there or the other
place--to a show, a restaurant, one of their homes, where a card
game might be indulged in by two or three of them, or even to one
of the shameless houses, contact with which Clyde at first
resolutely refused. But by degrees, becoming familiar with
Hegglund and Ratterer, both of whom he liked very much, and being
invited by them to a joy-night supper--a "blow-out" as they termed
it, at Frissell's--he decided to go.
"There's going to be another one of our montly blow-outs to-morrow
night, Clyde, around at Frissell's," Ratterer had said to him.
"Don't you want to come along? You haven't been yet."
By this time, Clyde, having acclimated himself to this caloric
atmosphere, was by no means as dubious as he was at first. For by
now, in imitation of Doyle, whom he had studied most carefully and
to great advantage, he had outfitted himself with a new brown suit,
cap, overcoat, socks, stickpin and shoes as near like those of his
mentor as possible. And the costume became him well--excellently
well--so much so that he was far more attractive than he had ever
been in his life, and now, not only his parents, but his younger
brother and sister, were not a little astonished and even amazed by
the change.
How could Clyde have come by all this grandeur so speedily? How
much could all this that he wore now have cost? Was he not
hypothecating more of his future earnings for this temporary
grandeur than was really wise? He might need it in the future.
The other children needed things, too. And was the moral and
spiritual atmosphere of a place that made him work such long hours
and kept him out so late every day, and for so little pay, just the
place to work?
To all of which, he had replied, rather artfully for him, that it
was all for the best, he was not working too hard. His clothes
were not too fine, by any means--his mother should see some of the
other boys. He was not spending too much money. And, anyhow, he
had a long while in which to pay for all he had bought.
But now, as to this supper. That was a different matter, even to
him. How, he asked himself, in case the thing lasted until very
late as was expected, could he explain to his mother and father his
remaining out so very late. Ratterer had said it might last until
three or four, anyhow, although he might go, of course, any time,
but how would that look, deserting the crowd? And yet hang it all,
most of them did not live at home as he did, or if they did like
Ratterer, they had parents who didn't mind what they did. Still, a
late supper like that--was it wise? All these boys drank and
thought nothing of it--Hegglund, Ratterer, Kinsella, Shiel. It
must be silly for him to think that there was so much danger in
drinking a little, as they did on these occasions. On the other
hand it was true that he need not drink unless he wanted to. He
could go, and if anything was said at home, he would say that he
had to work late. What difference did it make if he stayed out
late once in a while? Wasn't he a man now? Wasn't he making more
money than any one else in the family? And couldn't he begin to do
as he pleased?
He began to sense the delight of personal freedom--to sniff the air
of personal and delicious romance--and he was not to be held back
by any suggestion which his mother could now make.
Chapter 9
And so the interesting dinner, with Clyde attending, came to pass.
And it was partaken of at Frissell's, as Ratterer had said. And by
now Clyde, having come to be on genial terms with all of these
youths, was in the gayest of moods about it all. Think of his new
state in life, anyhow. Only a few weeks ago he was all alone, not
a boy friend, scarcely a boy acquaintance in the world! And here
he was, so soon after, going to this fine dinner with this
interesting group.
And true to the illusions of youth, the place appeared far more
interesting than it really was. It was little more than an
excellent chop-house of the older American order. Its walls were
hung thick with signed pictures of actors and actresses, together
with playbills of various periods. And because of the general
excellence of the food, to say nothing of the geniality of its
present manager, it had become the hangout of passing actors,
politicians, local business men, and after them, the generality of
followers who are always drawn by that which presents something a
little different to that with which they are familiar.
And these boys, having heard at one time and another from cab and
taxi drivers that this was one of the best places in town, fixed
upon it for their monthly dinners. Single plates of anything cost
from sixty cents to a dollar. Coffee and tea were served in pots
only. You could get anything you wanted to drink. To the left of
the main room as you went in was a darker and low-ceilinged room
with a fireplace, to which only men resorted and sat and smoked,
and read papers after dinner, and it was for this room that these
youths reserved their greatest admiration. Eating here, they
somehow felt older, wiser, more important--real men of the world.
And Ratterer and Hegglund, to whom by now Clyde had become very
much attached, as well as most of the others, were satisfied that
there was not another place in all Kansas City that was really as
good.
And so this day, having drawn their pay at noon, and being off at
six for the night, they gathered outside the hotel at the corner
nearest the drug store at which Clyde had originally applied for
work, and were off in a happy, noisy frame of mind--Hegglund,
Ratterer, Paul Shiel, Davis Higby, another youth, Arthur Kinsella
and Clyde.
"Didja hear de trick de guy from St. Louis pulled on the main
office yesterday?" Hegglund inquired of the crowd generally, as
they started walking. "Wires last Saturday from St. Louis for a
parlor, bedroom and bat for himself and wife, an' orders flowers
put in de room. Jimmy, the key clerk, was just tellin' me. Den