"What shall we do this evening?"
"I shall be studying."
"Oh, rot; don't work so hard."
It was morning in mid-May and Dick Brown was standing in the hallway of
Mrs. Pickens' boarding-house, his hat set back on his head, turning for
the last word with Hertha before he left for his day's task. It was a
grief to him that they did not leave together; but, though she finished
breakfast when he did, and had but a few minutes leeway beyond his time
of departure, she was never ready when the minute came that he must go.
So he stopped this morning to ask his question, knowing the answer,
since he had received it the night before, but anxious to hold the young
girl in conversation before he turned into the engrossing world of
business that drove her from his thoughts. And yet, even when he was
most concentrated on some perplexing detail associated with the handling
of fancy trimmings, she would be back in his mind, far back where he
might not turn to her and yet where, when the hour came that released
him from the bondage of the city's trade, she was present--her brown
eyes, to his fancy, looking at him with more favor than they had yet
shown.
"Well, good-by," he said, grasping the doorknob.
"Good-by," she answered, and turned upstairs to her room.
Whirled through the city and over the bridge, Dick tried to obliterate
the image of the girl he loved and to turn to schemes of business. He
was well aware that he had not yet caught her fancy, that she was not in
the least in love with him, but he reckoned on his staying powers and on
the fortune that some day he meant to lay at her feet. Any one so alone
in the world as she, and she seemed singularly alone, must need a
protector; and if he could only be patient and work diligently the time
might come when she would accept a home filled with every conceivable
thing to use, lovely as the "House Beautiful" rooms exhibited in the
department stores, and where, when she had wandered through the many
chambers and corridors, she would accept the man who stood upon the
threshold eager to bring this, and more, of comfort and luxury and
watchful care into her life. So he sat tense in his seat (he sometimes
got a seat going in to his work) and began with resolute will to ponder
the problem of business success. And as he pondered his face took on a
shrewd and calculating expression at variance with his youthful frame
and his bright, speckled necktie.
At noon he went into a restaurant frequented by many business men of the
neighborhood and was greeted by an elderly gentleman at a table near the
doorway who invited him to sit down. Like the firm for which he worked,
this man was a dealer in trimmings, and Dick was elated at such a sign
of favor. Perhaps it might lead to an opportunity for advancement. He
took his place with some embarrassment, however, not knowing whether
this were an invitation to luncheon or only to a seat in which to have a
friendly chat. Believing it wiser to assume the latter to be the case,
he picked up the bill of fare and said in a loud voice, "I reckon you've
ordered your grub."
Mr. James Talbert, whose modest sign on Broadway shone conspicuous among
the plethora of foreign names, smiled good-humoredly and answered: "Not
yet; I'm planning to order yours with mine. I don't have a young man
fresh from the Sunny South to dine with me every day."
Richard Brown laughed hilariously to hide the hurt to his pride. It was
not the first time that it had been conveyed to him that he was fresh.
A weary, indifferent waiter received the order, and in a short time they
were engrossed in disposing of an excellent and hearty meal.
As he became less absorbed in his chops and _saute_ potatoes, Dick
looked about the room filled with tables where busy men were intent on
fortifying themselves with food before they went back to their
engrossing work. He noted their faces, their figures, and guessed at
their professions. The tall, thin young fellow ahead was a clerk like
himself--he could tell by the way he was trying to joke with his waiter.
There were newspaper men back of him; it was easy to determine them by
their talk about this or the other "story." Moving down the aisle and
returning his stare was a young, black-haired, dark-eyed Jew thrumming
restlessly with his fingers. In business for himself, Dick guessed, and
calculating on to-day's gains and to-morrow's expenditures. The young
southerner wondered whether he would ever be able to do this, whether
the day would come when he would have a business of his own.
"Chops all right?" The older man broke the silence.
"Hunky. See that fellow over there?" Dick pointed to a somewhat soiled,
slouchily dressed youth who had taken a seat near them. "That's the way
we look where I come from, only a heap more good-natured. Something like
a mule, though, slow and kind of set-like; we could kick if it was worth
while throwing out our heels. There ain't much hurry there, except if
once in a lifetime you want to catch a train. Yes, and there's the
factory, that's speeding up the folks."
"Miss it?" his companion asked.
"The way we do things, you mean? No, sir! I wouldn't go back, except for
a vacation, not if you gave me a present of Casper County on a golden
tray. I like it here; it's a race."
Dick spoke with emphasis and then took a great mouthful of food that
required his full attention.
"Country boys are apt to feel that way." Mr. Talbert looked gravely at
the young man before him. "The city would never grow as it does if it
wasn't fed by country stock, strong young fellows who have worked out of
doors and laid up energy to be exhausted later within the great
buildings down town."
"I can't say as I ever did much work." The young Georgian grinned as he
recalled his boyhood. "But I played a heap and made enough trouble for
the neighbors to win me a gilt-edged certificate in cussedness. Business
is a sort of play, I reckon, and the biggest daredevil comes out ahead."
"It means taking risks."
"Do you think," Dick asked, his cheeks flushing as though he expected to
be guyed for his question, "that a fellow can come to New York any more
without a penny and end a millionaire?"
"They're still doing it." The business man eyed his guest with
evident interest. "But the number gets smaller all the time. It's
a little like telling every boy that he can become president, this
poor-man-to-millionaire business; nevertheless," looking intently at his
listener, "it can be done."
"Honest Injun?" The joviality left Dick's face, though he tried to put
it in his voice. His thin mouth was tightly drawn and the hard lines
were accentuated about his deep blue eyes.
"Honest Injun." Mr. Talbert was amused again. "But don't forget the
secret. Always look out for yourself. Don't think about the other
fellow, for if he's a good business man you can count on it he isn't
thinking about you."
"Listen!" Dick leaned forward. "I'm meaning what I say. I've got to get
rich. It ain't for myself; it's for a girl, a girl that ought to have
the best of everything in New York."
For the first time during the meal he spoke in a low voice, but with an
intensity that drove the smile from his companion's face. With elbows on
the table, his head resting on his hands, he looked into the older man's
eyes as though he hoped by searching long enough to learn the secret of
success that he saw about him in this great city--the success that moved
outside in silent limousines, that inhabited beautiful houses filled
with skilled servants, that sent its women and children, now the warm
weather advanced, into other beautiful houses by the sea. In the Sunday
supplements of the great papers he had seen pictures of these homes and
of the women who dwelt in them. There was not a face among the many that
belonged more truly in such surroundings than the face that he looked
into at his boarding-house table every day. And among the men who had
won this success were some, he knew, who had started as poor as he. He
asked only to be told their secret.
Mr. Talbert did not smile at the mention of the girl as Dick feared he
would. Instead he looked sympathetically at the long face before him.
"A girl's a good thing to work for," he said. "It keeps a man thrifty
and sober. I'm not an expert on getting rich, for such money as I have
was mostly made by my father before me. But I take it if a man is young
and strong and has an aptitude for his profession, he can still get what
he wants in these United States. But he's got to want it more than
anything else in the world, more than leisure or friends, more, perhaps,
than honor. He's got to carry his work with him, study it in the
evening, dream of it at night. He's got to live poor before he can live
rich. He must be able to use men for his own aims. He must skin or he'll
be skinned. See here, Mac," clutching at a man who was passing, "come
and give your advice to youth."
A large, comfortable looking gentleman stopped at his friend's bidding
and looked quizzically at Dick as they were introduced. He would not sit
down, and as the others were through their meal Talbert settled his
account and they all stood for a moment together.
"Have a cigar?" offering one to Dick.
"I think I won't," Dick answered. "Perhaps that's one of the things to
go slow on, eh, if I mean to succeed?"
"Yes, when it comes to buying them yourself; but never refuse a gift,"
and his new acquaintance thrust the cigar into the young man's hand.
"Here's an emigrant from the State of Georgia," Talbert said, turning to
his friend, "who is bent on becoming a millionaire. He's got health and
determination; all he asks for is advice. What's yours?"
"David Harum's golden rule," was the answer. "Do unto the other feller
the way he'd like to do unto you, and do it fust."
They made their way past the waiters bearing their trays gleaming with
straw-colored cocktails, bright with fruit, pleasantly odorous with
freshly cooked meats and vegetables, on out into the street. The older
men continued to explain the road to success in kindly speech, their
tone and bearing at variance with the harsh gospel which they preached.
Dick listened eagerly, as eagerly as he had once listened to the gospel
of the evangelist at home. And as he shook hands and left them, he
walked up Broadway feeling a strange elation. His hand went to his
pocket for the cigar he usually smoked at this time, but, recalling
himself, he put it resolutely back. He would live meagerly to-day that
he might have a plethora in a golden to-morrow.
The soft May air blowing on his face recalled to him his southern home.
He had been poor down there, and yet not poor in comparison with his
neighbors. His father had owned hundreds of acres of miserable soil on
which his tenants had planted cotton and reaped scanty crops. He
recalled those tenants--sallow, ill-fed whites, shiftless blacks. Their
cabins reeked with dirt and were always cluttered with children. The men
were continually in debt, and while his father got from them all he
could, being accounted a hard master by his neighbors, Dick knew that
there was little enough that any one made. It had been a good thing when
his mother had sold some of the property. Had it not been for their
timber they would have known real poverty. He felt a sudden revulsion
for his old home, its sordidness, its slow piling of penny upon penny
with no greater outlook upon life than a new rifle or a Victrola in the
best room. There was no game worthy the name to be played down there,
only a monotonous round of stupid covetousness. Here the play was
difficult and the stakes big.
He held his head very high that afternoon, and fairly touched the clouds
when, before he went home, he was informed that he would again be sent
for a short time upon the road. His first trip had brought in good
results and he was to be entrusted with a better circuit and to receive
a slight increase in salary. He felt grateful for the advancement, and
then, recalling the advice of noontime, put this thought from him. If he
were getting more money it was because the firm thought he was worth it,
and that they must pay more or lose him. Therefore it was to his own
interest, while serving them, to be looking for advancement. In the
autumn he might seek a job with Mr. Talbert.
He was enough of a boy still to buy a box of candies to take to Hertha.
Calculating that his luncheon had cost him nothing and that he would
begin at once to save by smoking only one cigar a day, he spent a dollar
on his gift, and with it tucked under his arm moved among the seething
mass of faces, mysteriously upborne, on bodies with arms and legs, that
stampeded the Brooklyn train. Once hanging to his hardly secured strap,
contrary to the advice given him, he let the work of the day drop from
his mind and fell into a day dream of a home of his own with Hertha as
its queen. And as he thought of her, of her lightly poised head, her
softly curling hair, her delicate hands, the minutes flew by and he was
quite unconscious that he was standing amid a crowd of people, the women
swaying on the straps to which they clung, one of them falling regularly
against him at each station, the men endeavoring to read their
newspapers while they balanced themselves with each recurring jolt. He
was moving on as the train moved in a swift passage through time,
stopping now and again at some well-marked station along the happy road
of life.
As he neared his stopping place an old question came to perplex him. Who
was this girl whom he so deeply loved? Ogilvie was a fine sounding name,
and any one could see that she was descended from people of note. But he
was curious to know something of her kin and of her early life. It was
of no use to ask his mother or any of the folks at home. As he had once
put it to Hertha, they were "hill billies," far removed from her
progenitors. Mrs. Pickens had confessed ignorance when he had questioned
her. The one person who could tell him anything he dared not question.
There was something in Hertha's reserve that he was forced to respect,
and yet he often wondered that any girl should be so wholly alone. She
seemed to receive no mail. More than once, since she herself had first
spoken of him, he had alluded to her brother, only to be met with a shy
silence. He had never before known so silent a girl, or one, too, whom
it was so difficult to interest. Sometimes when he recalled the Rosies
and Annie-Lous at home over whom he had lorded it with the high hand of
the best-known fellow in the county, he wondered that he should be so
engrossed in one who was evidently indifferent to his advances. But he
was keen enough to see that, like his coveted riches, the needed effort
to gain her affection added to the intensity of his desire. But he did
wish, as he clutched the candy to his side, that she would treat him a
little better. They did not seem to be as near one another now as they
had been in the winter when she was living with her Irish friend.
Nothing was solved as he ran up the stoop of Mrs. Pickens'
boarding-house and put his key in the latch, but he was rewarded with a
bright smile when, looking in at Hertha's open doorway, he tossed the
box of candy on her bed. He was never invited over the threshold of her
bedroom, though it was beyond his code of etiquette to understand why.
In his mother's home the living-room contained the largest bed in the
house, a massive affair with a variegated cover that every visitor was
called upon to admire. But he had learned from experience that if he
entered Hertha's room she shortly left it, and so, accepting her word of
thanks, he went to his own quarters to make himself ready for dinner.
At eight o'clock, when Hertha was poring over a page of shorthand,
vainly endeavoring to read the business letter from "Jones Brothers" to
"Smith and Company," she heard a knock at her door. Opening it, she
found Dick outside.
"I told them you didn't want to be disturbed," he hastened to say in
answer to her look of annoyance, "but Mrs. Pickens and Miss Wood want
you to come down and make a fourth at bridge."
"Get Mrs. Wood," Hertha made answer, "you know I can't play."
"Neither can she," Dick replied cheerfully, "but she don't know it.
However, she won't," he added, "we've asked her."
Hertha looked at the page of wavering marks and hesitated.
"Oh, come along," Dick pleaded. "Do it 'to oblige Benson.' Mrs. Pickens
has left a bunch of southern newspapers, just come in, to amuse us, but
she wants you."
It was a standing joke in the household, the love its landlady bore for
local southern news. A corner of her room was stacked with such weeklies
as "The Cherokee Advocate," "The Talapoosie Ladies' Messenger," over
which she would pore, reading the births and deaths, the marriages and
divorces, the lawsuits and business tribulations, the receptions and
engagements of the southern world as though each community were her own.
"They're my novels," she would retort when Dick jeered at her fondness
for these local sheets. Hertha appreciated her unselfishness in joining
the game, and, obeying an impulse to have a good time, flung down her
textbook, picked up her box of candy and, accompanied by Dick, went
downstairs.
The young man was elated. At Hertha's request he placed the candy in the
center of the table and seized upon her as his partner without
permitting the question to be decided by cutting the cards. For this
Hertha was grateful, since she knew little of the game and was confident
that she would spoil the good time of either of the women should they
have to bear her mistakes upon their score. Of Miss Wood she stood much
in awe. That lady was an assistant secretary in an Association for
Improving the Condition of the Destitute and knew a prodigious amount
regarding poverty and crime. She played her cards as though solving one
of her, day's cases. Mrs. Pickens had played to oblige too often to have
any feeling of the importance of the game. To Dick, cards were a matter
of luck; his failures were always attributed to poor hands, and with
Hertha opposite him he cared little whether he ended in a pit of defeat
or on a pinnacle of success.
"I wish you wouldn't talk so much about above and below the line,"
Hertha said, as they started upon a new rubber.
"Why?" Mrs. Pickens asked.
"Because it's in shorthand, and I want to forget the old stuff. All the
sense of a sentence depends upon whether you're above or below."
"It's much the same in bridge," Mrs. Pickens made answer. "Now don't
make it, Dick, unless you have the cards."
It was before auction bridge when the dealer's position was an important
one.
"I'm not reckless, am I?" Dick asked, appealing to his partner. "I'm as
careful as a donkey walking by the side of a precipice."
"Just about," said Hertha, laughing.
Forgetful of the game, he looked at her as though he would devour her.
"Perhaps you will decide on something," Miss Wood remarked
sarcastically, "or let your partner."
"Make it, partner," said Dick, but Hertha, frightened at the
opportunity, threw down a good hand.
Certainly her partner never lectured her upon her poor plays. He was
quite indifferent when she took his Queen with her King, and when in a
burst of adventure she doubled her opponent and lost four tricks he
proved to her that she had done exactly right. This disaster made her
cautious and in the following hand, with four aces, she made it spades
and scored eight points instead of a grand slam. When the modest figure
was placed below the line her partner cheered her for her success.
"Really, Miss Ogilvie," Miss Wood said, "if you want to learn bridge you
must not think that a make like that is good. It is quite wrong."
Hertha laughed acquiescence. She was having a good time and enjoying
Dick's ridiculous talk as hand after hand he kept up a stream of
comment. Mrs. Pickens laughed with them, but the fourth member of the
party became angry.
"This is not bridge," she said, her hands shaking as she picked up the
cards dealt her.
"Ain't it?" said Dick good-naturedly. "Well, it's fun, anyway."
He took an unconscionably long time to decide on the trump, clutching
his cards tightly, and wrinkling his forehead in imitation of his
indignant opponent.
"Oh, do make it something!" Mrs. Pickens urged him.
"Very well, hearts!" cried Dick, "Hearts, the best suit in the pack."
He broke into exaggerated praise of the quite ordinary hand Hertha
spread out for him. He loved the careful way in which she put each card
in sequence.
"The King of my suit!" he cried. "Didn't I know you had it! Saw it with
my poker eye. Ever play poker, Miss Hertha?"
He had asked the question before, and she did not trouble to answer him.
Not that he cared whether he was answered or not. He felt elated at his
day and at the evening that was bringing him such good fortune.
Talking steadily as he threw down his cards, he won a finesse, for by
this time Miss Wood had lost all track of the game.
"What did I tell you?" he cried to Hertha boisterously. "This is the
time we're going under and over both. Just you wait. Count the tricks!
One, two, three, four, five, six--only four more and the rubber's ours.
Watch me now! Just watch yours truly haul in the goods. Watch me----"
"Oh, stop talking, Dick," said Mrs. Pickens good-humoredly, "and play."
She was very fond of this southern lad, her one man boarder, and was
quite ready herself to frolic. But, seeing the thundercloud on her
partner's face, she endeavored to bring some seriousness into the
occasion.
"Well, here goes!" cried the young man. "My trump card!" and he flung
down the ace of hearts.
The deuce, tray and four spot fell upon it.
"One, two, three, four!" he called out. "Kiss the dealer!"
Leaning far over the table, his lips came within an inch of Hertha's
own.
She drew back, blushing crimson, her body stiff with antagonism. Mrs.
Pickens, to relieve the situation, put her arm around the youth's neck
and, drawing down his head, gave him the asked-for kiss. But she could
not resist murmuring, "A poor substitute."
"Three tricks more," Dick called, and dashed through the hand.
He won the game and the rubber, but he had reduced his partner to a
state of frigidity excelling even Miss Wood's. "We won't play any more,"
she said to that lady, "I know you are tired at our noise." And with a
general good-night she went out of the room, leaving the box of candy
behind her.
Miss Wood added the score conscientiously, pronounced her partner and
herself the winners, professed indignation at Dick's offer to pay
anything he might owe, and, accompanied by Mrs. Pickens, left the young
man to himself.
Richard Shelby Brown looked across the table at the empty chair and
deliberately kicked himself. "What a mutt I am," he thought. "But if she
were a princess, born with a lot of knights bowing before her all day
long, she couldn't hold her head any higher." Then he pulled the cigar
that Mr. Talbert had given him out of his pocket, struck a light and
began to smoke. And as he sniffed the delicious fragrance and blew rings
into the air, as he looked about the room at the bright pictures all
descriptive of gaiety and happiness, he grew less disturbed and
gradually regained his self-possession. One could never tell what a girl
liked, but surely she must find it pleasant to know that a man wanted to
kiss her. Had she slapped him on the face, as Annie-Lou would have done,
he would not have minded. But she had blushed, and, oh how beautiful she
became when the color rushed into her face! Tilted back in one chair,
his feet on another, he puffed at his cigar and puffed again, and smiled
gently, thinking of the princess in her room and of the palace that he
must hasten to build.