WAITING.
“My friend,” said an old and experienced philosopher to a young man,
who with all the fire and impatience of his years wished to conquer the
world quickly, “youth has many things to learn, but one of the most
important is never to let another man beat you at waiting.”
Peter went back to his desk, and waited. He gave up looking at the wall
of his office, and took to somebody “On Torts” again. When that was
finished he went through the other law books of his collection. Those
done, he began to buy others, and studied them with great thoroughness
and persistence. In one of his many walks, he stumbled upon the
Apprentices’ Library. Going in, he inquired about its privileges, and
became a regular borrower of books. Peter had always been a reader, but
now he gave from three or four hours a day to books, aside from his law
study. Although he was slow, the number of volumes, he not merely read,
but really mastered was marvellous. Books which he liked, without much
regard to their popular reputation, he at once bought; for his simple
life left him the ability to indulge himself in most respects within
moderation. He was particularly careful to read a classic occasionally
to keep up his Greek and Latin, and for the same reason he read French
and German books aloud to himself. Before the year was out, he was a
recognized quantity in certain book-stores, and was privileged to
browse at will both among old and new books without interference or
suggestion from the “stock” clerks. “There isn’t any good trying to
sell him anything,” remarked one. “He makes up his mind for himself.”
His reading was broadened out from the classic and belles-lettres
grooves that were still almost a cult with the college graduate, by
another recreation now become habitual with him. In his long tramps
about the city, to vary the monotony, he would sometimes stop and chat
with people—with a policeman, a fruit-vender, a longshoreman or a
truckster. It mattered little who it was. Then he often entered
manufactories and “yards” and asked if he could go through them,
studying the methods, and talking to the overseer or workers about the
trade. When he occasionally encountered some one who told him “your
kind ain’t got no business here” he usually found the statement “my
father was a mill-overseer” a way to break down the barrier. He had to
use it seldom, for he dressed plainly and met the men in a way which
seldom failed to make them feel that he was one of them. After such
inspection and chat, he would get books from the library, and read up
about the business or trade, finding that in this way he could enjoy
works otherwise too technical, and really obtain a very good knowledge
of many subjects. Just how interesting he found such books as “Our
Fire-Laddies,” which he read from cover to cover, after an inspection
of, and chat with, the men of the nearest fire-engine station; or
Latham’s “The Sewage Difficulty,” which the piping of uptown New York
induced him to read; and others of diverse types is questionable.
Probably it was really due to his isolation, but it was much healthier
than gazing at blank walls.
When the courts opened, Peter kept track of the calendars, and whenever
a case or argument promised to be interesting, or to call out the great
lights of the profession, he attended and listened to them. He tried to
write out the arguments used, from notes, and finally this practice
induced him to give two evenings a week during the winter mastering
shorthand. It was really only a mental discipline, for any case of
importance was obtainable in print almost as soon as argued, but Peter
was trying to put a pair of slate-colored eyes out of his thoughts, and
employed this as one of the means.
When winter came, and his long walks became less possible, he turned to
other things. More from necessity than choice, he visited the art and
other exhibitions as they occurred, he went to concerts, and to plays,
all with due regard to his means, and for this reason the latter were
the most seldom indulged in. Art and music did not come easy to him,
but he read up on both, not merely in standard books, but in the
reviews of the daily press, and just because there was so much in both
that he failed to grasp, he studied the more carefully and patiently.
One trait of his New England training remained to him. He had brought a
letter from his own Congregational church in his native town, to one of
the large churches of the same sect in New York, and when admitted,
hired a sitting and became a regular attendant at both morning and
evening service. In time this produced a call from his new pastor. It
was the first new friend he had gained in New York. “He seems a quiet,
well-informed fellow,” was the clergyman’s comment; “I shall make a
point of seeing something of him.” But he was pastor of a very large
and rich congregation, and was a hard-worked and hard-entertained man,
so his intention was not realized.
Peter spent Christmastide with his mother, who worried not a little
over his loss of flesh.
“You have been overworking,” she said anxiously.
“Why mother, I haven’t had a client yet,” laughed Peter.
“Then you’ve worried over not getting on,” said his mother, knowing
perfectly well that it was nothing of the sort. She had hoped that
Peter would be satisfied with his six months’ trial, but did not
mention her wish. She marvelled to herself that New York had not yet
discovered his greatness.
When Peter returned to the city, he made a change in his living
arrangements. His boarding-place had filled up with the approach of
winter, but with the class of men he already knew too well. Even though
he met them only at meals, their atmosphere was intolerable to him.
When a room next his office fell vacant, and went begging at a very
cheap price, he decided to use it as a bedroom. So he moved his few
belongings on his return from his visit to his mother’s.
Although he had not been particularly friendly to the other boarders,
nor made himself obtrusive in the least, not one of them failed to
speak of his leaving. Two or three affected to be pleased, but
“Butter-and-cheese” said he “was a first-rate chap,” and this seemed to
gain the assent of the table generally.
“I’m dreadfully sorry to lose him,” his landlady informed her other
boarders, availing herself, perhaps, of the chance to deliver a side
hit at some of them. “He never has complained once, since he came here,
and he kept his room as neat as if he had to take care of it himself.”
“Well,” said the box-office oracle, “I guess he’s O.K., if he is a bit
stiff; and a fellow who’s best man to a big New York swell, and gets
his name in all the papers, doesn’t belong in a seven-dollar,
hash-seven-days-a-week, Bleecker Street boarding-house.”
Peter fitted his room up simply, the sole indulgence (if properly so
called) being a bath, which is not a usual fitting of a New York
business office, consciences not yet being tubbable. He had made his
mother show him how to make coffee, and he adopted the Continental
system of meals, having rolls and butter sent in, and making a French
breakfast in his own rooms. Then he lunched regularly not far from his
office, and dined wherever his afternoon walk, or evening plans carried
him. He found that he saved no money by the change, but he saved his
feelings, and was far freer to come and go as he chose.
He did not hear from the honeymoon party. Watts had promised to write
to him and send his address “as soon as we decide whether we pass the
winter in Italy or on the Nile.” But no letter came. Peter called on
the Pierces, only to find them out, and as no notice was taken of his
pasteboard, he drew his own inference, and did not repeat the visit.
Such was the first year of Peter’s New York life. He studied, he read,
he walked, and most of all, he waited. But no client came, and he
seemed no nearer one than the day he had first seen his own name on his
office door. “How much longer will I have to wait? How long will my
patience hold out?” These were the questions he asked himself, when for
a moment he allowed himself to lose courage. Then he would take to a
bit of wall-gazing, while dreaming of a pair of slate-colored eyes.