This idea of appealing to the president of one of the great railroads
that entered New York was not so difficult to execute. Eugene dressed
himself very carefully the next morning, and going to the office of the
company in Forty-second Street, consulted the list of officers posted in
one of the halls, and finding the president to be on the third floor,
ascended. He discovered, after compelling himself by sheer will power to
enter, that this so-called office was a mere anteroom to a force of
assistants serving the president, and that no one could see him except
by appointment.
"You might see his secretary if he isn't busy," suggested the clerk who
handled his card gingerly.
Eugene was for the moment undetermined what to do but decided that maybe
the secretary could help him. He asked that his card might be taken to
him and that no explanation be demanded of him except by the secretary
in person. The latter came out after a while, an under secretary of
perhaps twenty-eight years of age, short and stout. He was bland and
apparently good natured.
"What is it I can do for you?" he asked.
Eugene had been formulating his request in his mind--some method of
putting it briefly and simply.
"I came up to see Mr. Wilson," he said, "to see if he would not send me
out as a day-laborer of some kind in connection with some department of
the road. I am an artist by profession and I am suffering from
neurasthenia. All the doctors I have consulted have recommended that I
get a simple, manual position of some kind and work at it until I am
well. I know of an instance in which Mr. Wilson, assisted, in this way,
Mr. Savin the author, and I thought he might be willing to interest
himself in my case."
At the sound of Henry Savin's name the under-secretary pricked up his
ears. He had, fortunately, read one of his books, and this together with
Eugene's knowledge of the case, his personal appearance, a certain ring
of sincerity in what he was saying, caused him to be momentarily
interested.
"There is no position in connection with any clerical work which the
president could give you, I am sure," he replied. "All of these things
are subject to a system of promotion. It might be that he could place
you with one of the construction gangs in one of the departments under a
foreman. I don't know. It's very hard work, though. He might consider
your case." He smiled commiseratingly. "I question whether you're strong
enough to do anything of that sort. It takes a pretty good man to wield
a pick or a shovel."
"I don't think I had better worry about that now," replied Eugene in
return, smiling wearily. "I'll take the work and see if it won't help
me. I think I need it badly enough."
He was afraid the under-secretary would repent of his suggestion and
refuse him entirely.
"Can you wait a little while?" asked the latter curiously. He had the
idea that Eugene was someone of importance, for he had suggested as a
parting argument that he could give a number of exceptional references.
"Certainly," said Eugene, and the secretary went his way, coming back in
half an hour to hand him an enveloped letter.
"We have the idea," he said quite frankly waiving any suggestion of the
president's influence in the matter and speaking for himself and the
secretary-in-chief, with whom he had agreed that Eugene ought to be
assisted, "that you had best apply to the engineering department.
Mr. Hobsen, the chief-engineer, can arrange for you. This letter I think
will get you what you want."
Eugene's heart bounded. He looked at the superscription and saw it
addressed to Mr. Woodruff Hobsen, Chief Engineer, and putting it in his
pocket without stopping to read it, but thanking the under-secretary
profusely, went out. In the hall at a safe distance he stopped and
opened it, finding that it spoke of him familiarly as "Mr. Eugene Witla,
an artist, temporarily incapacitated by neurasthenia," and went on to
say that he was "desirous of being appointed to some manual toil in some
construction corps. The president's office recommends this request to
your favor."
When he read this he knew it meant a position. It roused curious
feelings as to the nature and value of stratification. As a laborer he
was nothing: as an artist he could get a position as a laborer. After
all, his ability as an artist was worth something. It obtained him this
refuge. He hugged it joyously, and a few moments later handed it to an
under-secretary in the Chief-Engineer's office. Without being seen by
anyone in authority he was in return given a letter to Mr. William
Haverford, "Engineer of Maintenance of Way," a pale, anaemic gentleman of
perhaps forty years of age, who, as Eugene learned from him when he was
eventually ushered into his presence a half hour later, was a captain of
thirteen thousand men. The latter read the letter from the Engineer's
office curiously. He was struck by Eugene's odd mission and his
appearance as a man. Artists were queer. This was like one. Eugene
reminded him of himself a little in his appearance.
"An artist," he said interestedly. "So you want to work as a day
laborer?" He fixed Eugene with clear, coal-black eyes looking out of a
long, pear-shaped face. Eugene noticed that his hands were long and thin
and white and that his high, pale forehead was crowned by a mop of black
hair.
"Neurasthenia. I've heard a great deal about that of late, but have
never been troubled that way myself. I find that I derive considerable
benefit when I am nervous from the use of a rubber exerciser. You have
seen them perhaps?"
"Yes," Eugene replied, "I have. My case is much too grave for that, I
think. I have traveled a great deal. But it doesn't seem to do me any
good. I want work at something manual, I fancy--something at which I
have to work. Exercise in a room would not help me. I think I need a
complete change of environment. I will be much obliged if you will place
me in some capacity."
"Well, this will very likely be it," suggested Mr. Haverford blandly.
"Working as a day-laborer will certainly not strike you as play. To tell
you the truth, I don't think you can stand it." He reached for a
glass-framed map showing the various divisions of the railroad
stretching from New England to Chicago and St. Louis, and observed
quietly. "I could send you to a great many places, Pennsylvania, New
York, Ohio, Michigan, Canada." His finger roved idly about. "I have
thirteen thousand men in my department and they are scattered far and
wide."
Eugene marveled. Such a position! Such authority! This pale, dark man
sitting as an engineer at a switch board directing so large a machine.
"You have a large force," he said simply. Mr. Haverford smiled wanly.
"I think, if you will take my advice, you will not go in a construction
corps right away. You can hardly do manual labor. There is a little
carpenter shop which we have at Speonk, not very far outside the city,
which I should think would answer your needs admirably. A little creek
joins the Hudson there and it's out on a point of land, the shop is.
It's summer now, and to put you in a broiling sun with a gang of
Italians would be a little rough. Take my advice and go here. It will be
hard enough. After you are broken in and you think you want a change I
can easily arrange it for you. The money may not make so much difference
to you but you may as well have it. It will be fifteen cents an hour. I
will give you a letter to Mr. Litlebrown, our division engineer, and he
will see that you are properly provided for."
Eugene bowed. Inwardly he smiled at the thought that the money would not
be acceptable to him. Anything would be acceptable. Perhaps this would
be best. It was near the city. The description of the little carpenter
shop out on the neck of land appealed to him. It was, as he found when
he looked at the map of the immediate division to which this belonged,
almost within the city limits. He could live in New York--the upper
portion of it anyhow.
Again there was a letter, this time to Mr. Henry C. Litlebrown, a tall,
meditative, philosophic man whom Eugene found two days later in the
division offices at Yonkers, who in turn wrote a letter to Mr. Joseph
Brooks, Superintendent of Buildings, at Mott Haven, whose secretary
finally gave Eugene a letter to Mr. Jack Stix, foreman carpenter at
Speonk. This letter, when presented on a bright Friday afternoon,
brought him the advice to come Monday at seven A. M., and so Eugene saw
a career as a day laborer stretching very conspicuously before him.
The "little shop" in question was located in the most charming manner
possible. If it had been set as a stage scene for his especial artistic
benefit it could not have been better. On a point of land between the
river and the main line of the railroad and a little creek, which was
east of the railroad and which the latter crossed on a trestle to get
back to the mainland again, it stood, a long, low two-storey structure,
green as to its roof, red as to its body, full of windows which
commanded picturesque views of passing yachts and steamers and little
launches and row-boats anchored safely in the waters of the cove which
the creek formed. There was a veritable song of labor which arose from
this shop, for it was filled with planes, lathes and wood-turning
instruments of various kinds, to say nothing of a great group of
carpenters who could make desks, chairs, tables, in short, office
furniture of various kinds, and who kept the company's needs of these
fittings for its depots and offices well supplied. Each carpenter had a
bench before a window on the second floor, and in the centre were the
few necessary machines they were always using, small jig, cross cut,
band and rip saws, a plane, and four or five lathes. On the ground floor
was the engine room, the blacksmith's shop, the giant plane, the great
jig and cross cut saws, and the store room and supply closets. Out in
the yard were piles of lumber, with tracks in between, and twice every
day a local freight called "The Dinky" stopped to switch in or take out
loaded cars of lumber or finished furniture and supplies. Eugene, as he
approached on the day he presented his letter, stopped to admire the
neatness of the low board fence which surrounded it all, the beauty of
the water, the droning sweetness of the saws.
"Why, the work here couldn't be very hard," he thought. He saw
carpenters looking out of the upper windows, and a couple of men in
brown overalls and jumpers unloading a car. They were carrying great
three-by-six joists on their shoulders. Would he be asked to do anything
like that. He scarcely thought so. Mr. Haverford had distinctly
indicated in his letter to Mr. Litlebrown that he was to be built up by
degrees. Carrying great joists did not appeal to him as the right way,
but he presented his letter. He had previously looked about on the high
ground which lay to the back of the river and which commanded this point
of land, to see if he could find a place to board and lodge, but had
seen nothing. The section was very exclusive, occupied by suburban New
Yorkers of wealth, and they were not interested in the proposition which
he had formulated in his own mind, namely his temporary reception
somewhere as a paying guest. He had visions of a comfortable home
somewhere now with nice people, for strangely enough the securing of
this very minor position had impressed him as the beginning of the end
of his bad luck. He was probably going to get well now, in the course of
time. If he could only live with some nice family for the summer. In the
fall if he were improving, and he thought he might be, Angela could come
on. It might be that one of the dealers, Pottle Freres or Jacob Bergman
or Henry LaRue would have sold a picture. One hundred and fifty or two
hundred dollars joined to his salary would go a long way towards making
their living moderately comfortable. Besides Angela's taste and economy,
coupled with his own art judgment, could make any little place look
respectable and attractive.
The problem of finding a room was not so easy. He followed the track
south to a settlement which was visible from the shop windows a quarter
of a mile away, and finding nothing which suited his taste as to
location, returned to Speonk proper and followed the little creek inland
half a mile. This adventure delighted him for it revealed a semi-circle
of charming cottages ranged upon a hill slope which had for its
footstool the little silvery-bosomed stream. Between the stream and the
hill slope ran a semi-circular road and above that another road. Eugene
could see at a glance that here was middle class prosperity, smooth
lawns, bright awnings, flower pots of blue and yellow and green upon the
porches, doorsteps and verandas. An auto standing in front of one house
indicated a certain familiarity with the ways of the rich, and a summer
road house, situated at the intersection of a road leading out from New
York and the little stream where it was crossed by a bridge, indicated
that the charms of this village were not unknown to those who came
touring and seeking for pleasure. The road house itself was hung with
awnings and one dining balcony out over the water. Eugene's desire was
fixed on this village at once. He wanted to live here--anywhere in it.
He walked about under the cool shade of the trees looking at first one
door yard and then another wishing that he might introduce himself by
letter and be received. They ought to welcome an artist of his ability
and refinement and would, he thought, if they knew. His working in a
furniture factory or for the railroad as a day laborer for his health
simply added to his picturesque character. In his wanderings he finally
came upon a Methodist church quaintly built of red brick and grey stone
trimmings, and the sight of its tall, stained glass windows and square
fortress-like bell-tower gave him an idea. Why not appeal to the
minister? He could explain to him what he wanted, show him his
credentials--for he had with him old letters from editors, publishers
and art houses--and give him a clear understanding as to why he wanted
to come here at all. His ill health and distinction ought to appeal to
this man, and he would probably direct him to some one who would gladly
have him. At five in the afternoon he knocked at the door and was
received in the pastor's study--a large still room in which a few flies
were buzzing in the shaded light. In a few moments the minister himself
came in--a tall, grey-headed man, severely simple in his attire and with
the easy air of one who is used to public address. He was about to ask
what he could do for him when Eugene began with his explanation.
"You don't know me at all. I am a stranger in this section. I am an
artist by profession and I am coming to Speonk on Monday to work in the
railroad shop there for my health. I have been suffering from a nervous
breakdown and am going to try day labor for awhile. I want to find a
convenient, pleasant place to live, and I thought you might know of
someone here, or near here, who might be willing to take me in for a
little while. I can give excellent references. There doesn't appear to
be anything in the immediate neighborhood of the shop."
"It is rather isolated there," replied the old minister, studying Eugene
carefully. "I have often wondered how all those men like it, traveling
so far. None of them live about here." He looked at Eugene solemnly,
taking in his various characteristics. He was not badly impressed. He
seemed to be a reserved, thoughtful, dignified young man and decidedly
artistic. It struck him as very interesting that he should be trying so
radical a thing as day labor for his nerves.
"Let me see," he said thoughtfully. He sat down in his chair near his
table and put his hand over his eyes. "I don't think of anyone just at
the moment. There are plenty of families who have room to take you if
they would, but I question very much whether they would. In fact I'm
rather sure they wouldn't. Let me see now."
He thought again.
Eugene studied his big aquiline nose, his shaggy grey eyebrows, his
thick, crisp, grey hair. Already his mind was sketching him, the desk,
the dim walls, the whole atmosphere of the room.
"No, no," he said slowly. "I don't think of anyone. There is one
family--Mrs. Hibberdell. She lives in the--let me see--first, second,
third, tenth house above here. She has one nephew with her at present, a
young man of about your age, and I don't think anyone else. I don't know
that she would consider taking you in, but she might. Her house is quite
large. She did have her daughter with her at one time, but I'm not sure
that she's there now. I think not."
He talked as though he were reporting his own thoughts to himself
audibly.
Eugene pricked up his ears at the mention of a daughter. During all the
time he had been out of New York he had not, with the exception of
Frieda, had a single opportunity to talk intimately with any girl.
Angela had been with him all the time. Here in New York since he had
been back he had been living under such distressing conditions that he
had not thought of either youth or love. He had no business to be
thinking of it now, but this summer air, this tree-shaded village, the
fact that he had a position, small as it was, on which he could depend
and which would no doubt benefit him mentally, and that he was somehow
feeling better about himself because he was going to work, made him feel
that he might look more interestedly on life again. He was not going to
die; he was going to get well. Finding this position proved it. And he
might go to the house now and find some charming girl who would like him
very much. Angela was away. He was alone. He had again the freedom of
his youth. If he were only well and working!
He thanked the old minister very politely and went his way, recognizing
the house by certain details given him by the minister, a double
balconied veranda, some red rockers, two yellow jardinieres at the
doorstep, a greyish white picket fence and gate. He walked up smartly
and rang the bell. A very intelligent woman of perhaps fifty-five or
sixty with bright grey hair and clear light blue eyes was coming out
with a book in her hand. Eugene stated his case. She listened with keen
interest, looking him over the while. His appearance took her fancy, for
she was of a strong intellectual and literary turn of mind.
"I wouldn't ordinarily consider anything of the kind, but I am alone
here with my nephew and the house could easily accommodate a dozen. I
don't want to do anything which will irritate him, but if you will come
back in the morning I will let you know. It would not disturb me to have
you about. Do you happen to know of an artist by the name of Deesa?"
"I know him well," replied Eugene. "He's an old friend of mine."
"He is a friend of my daughter's, I think. Have you enquired anywhere
else here in the village?"
"No," said Eugene.
"That is just as well," she replied.
He took the hint.
So there was no daughter here. Well, what matter? The view was
beautiful. Of an evening he could sit out here in one of the rocking
chairs and look at the water. The evening sun, already low in the west
was burnishing it a bright gold. The outline of the hill on the other
side was dignified and peaceful. He could sleep and work as a day
laborer and take life easy for a while. He could get well now and this
was the way to do it. Day laborer! How fine, how original, how
interesting. He felt somewhat like a knight-errant reconnoitring a new
and very strange world.