say the matter was entirely in your own hands. This at least offers you an opening, and I advise you to accept it. However, you must decide for yourself; and if at any later date I may be of service–”
Don returned to the lounge to think the matter over. It was ten o’clock and he had not yet breakfasted. As he had neglected to send any provisions to the house, Nora, acting upon his orders of the day before, had not prepared anything for him–there was nothing to prepare.
However, whether he ate breakfast or not was a detail. That is to say, it was a detail when he left the house; but now, after the brisk walk to the club in the snapping cold air, it had grown in importance. Watson, on his way into the dining-room, passed him.
“Join me?” he asked, waving a greeting with the morning paper.
“Thanks,” answered Don. “Guess I’ll wait a bit.”
Watson went on.
Don returned to a consideration of Barton’s proposal. He was forced to admit that the old lawyer had an irritating knack of ignoring all incidental issues and stripping a problem to a statement of irrefutable fact. It was undeniable, for example, that what Don might desire in the way of salary did not affect the truth of Barton’s contention that twelve hundred dollars was a great deal more than nothing. With a roof over his head assured him, it was possible that he might, with economy, be able at least to keep alive on this salary. That, of course, was a matter to be considered. As for Frances, she was at present well provided for and need not be in the slightest affected by the smallness of his income. Then, there was the possibility of a rapid advance. He had no idea how those things were arranged, but his limited observation was to the effect that his friends who went into business invariably had all the money they needed, and that most of his older acquaintances–friends of his father–were presidents and vice-presidents with unlimited bank accounts. Considering these facts, Don grew decidedly optimistic.
In the mean time his hunger continued to press him. His body, like a greedy child, demanded food. Watson came out and, lighting a fresh cigarette, sank down comfortably into a chair next him.
“What’s the matter, Don–off your feed?” he inquired casually.
“Something of the sort,” nodded Don.
“Party last night?”
“No; guess I haven’t been getting exercise enough.”
He rose. Somehow, Watson bored him this morning.
“I’m going to take a hike down the Avenue. S’long.”
Don secured his hat, gloves, and stick, and started from the club at a brisk clip.
From Forty-fourth Street to the Twenties was as familiar a path as any in his life. He had traversed it probably a thousand times. Yet, this morning it suddenly became almost as strange as some street in Kansas City or San Francisco.
There were three reasons for this, any one of which would have accounted for the phenomenon: he was on his way to secure a job; he had in his pocket just thirteen cents; and he was hungry.
The stores before which he always stopped for a leisurely inspection of their contents took on a different air this morning. Quite automatically he paused before one and another of them and inspected the day’s display of cravats and waistcoats. But, with only thirteen cents in his pocket, a new element entered into his consideration of these things–the element of cost. It was at the florist’s that his situation was brought home to him even more keenly. Frances liked flowers, and she liked to receive them from him. Here were roses that looked as if they had been plucked for her. But they were behind a big plate-glass window. He had never noted before that, besides being transparent, plate-glass was also thick and hard. And he was hungry. The fact continually intruded itself.
At last he reached the address that Barton had given him. “Carter, Rand & Seagraves, Investment Securities,” read the inscription on the window. He passed through the revolving doors and entered the office.
A boy in buttons approached and took his card.
“Mr. Carter, Mr. Rand, or Mr. Seagraves,” said Don.
The boy was soon back.
“Mr. Farnsworth will see you in a few minutes,” he reported.
“Farnsworth?” inquired Don.
“He’s the gent what sees every one,” explained the boy. “Ticker’s over there.”
He pointed to a small machine upon a stand, which was slowly unfurling from its mouth a long strip of paper such as prestidigitators produce from silk hats. Don crossed to it, and studied the strip with interest. It was spattered with cryptic letters and figures, much like those he had learned to use indifferently well in a freshman course in chemistry. The only ones he recalled just then were H2O and CO2, and he amused himself by watching to see if they turned up.
“Mr. Pendleton?”
Don turned to find a middle-aged gentleman standing before him with outstretched hand.
“Mr. Barton wrote to us about you,” Farnsworth continued briskly. “I believe he said you had no business experience.”
“No,” admitted Don.
“Harvard man?”
Don named his class.
“Your father was well known to us. We are willing to take you on for a few months, if you wish to try the work. Of course, until you learn something of the business you won’t be of much value; but if you’d like to start at–say twenty-five dollars a week–why, we’d be glad to have you.”
At the beginning Don had a vague notion of estimating his value at considerably more; but Mr. Farnsworth was so decided, it did not seem worth while. At that moment, also, he was reminded again that he had not yet breakfasted.
“Thanks,” he replied. “When shall I begin?”
“Whenever you wish. If you haven’t anything on to-day, you might come in now, meet some of the men, and get your bearings.”
“All right,” assented Don.
Within the next five minutes Farnsworth had introduced him to Blake and Manson and Wheaton and Powers and Jennings and Chandler. Also to Miss Winthrop, a very busy stenographer. Then he left him in a chair by Powers’s desk. Powers was dictating to Miss Winthrop, and Don became engrossed in watching the nimbleness of her fingers.
At the end of his dictation, Powers excused himself and went out, leaving Don alone with Miss Winthrop. For a moment he felt a bit uncomfortable; he was not quite sure what the etiquette of a business office demanded in a situation of this sort. Soon, however, he realized that the question was solving itself by the fact that Miss Winthrop was apparently oblivious to his presence. If he figured in her consciousness any more than one of the office chairs, she gave no indication of it. She was transcribing from her notebook to the typewriter, and her fingers moved with marvelous dexterity and sureness. There was a sureness about every other movement, as when she slipped in a new sheet of paper or addressed an envelope or raised her head. There was a sureness in her eyes. He found himself quite unexpectedly staring into them once, and they didn’t waver, although he was not quite certain, even then, that they saw him. They were brown eyes, honest and direct, above a good nose and a mouth that, while retaining its girlish mobility, also revealed an unexpected trace of almost manlike
