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
