sixth floor the boy departed. At the eighth Clyde and an old lady
stepped forth. He hurried to the door of his guest and tapped.
The man opened it, somewhat more fully dressed than before. He had
on a pair of trousers and was shaving.
"Back, eh," he called.
"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, handing him the package and change. "He
said it was seventy-five cents."
"He's a damned robber, but you can keep the change, just the same,"
he replied, handing him the quarter and closing the door. Clyde
stood there, quite spellbound for the fraction of a second.
"Thirty-five cents"--he thought--"thirty-five cents." And for one
little short errand. Could that really be the way things went
here? It couldn't be, really. It wasn't possible--not always.
And then, his feet sinking in the soft nap of the carpet, his hand
in one pocket clutching the money, he felt as if he could squeal or
laugh out loud. Why, thirty-five cents--and for a little service
like that. This man had given him a quarter and the other a dime
and he hadn't done anything at all.
He hurried from the car at the bottom--the strains of the orchestra
once more fascinated him, the wonder of so well-dressed a throng
thrilling him--and made his way to the bench from which he had
first departed.
And following this he had been called to carry the three bags and
two umbrellas of an aged farmer-like couple, who had engaged a
parlor, bedroom and bath on the fifth floor. En route they kept
looking at him, as he could see, but said nothing. Yet once in
their room, and after he had promptly turned on the lights near the
door, lowered the blinds and placed the bags upon the bag racks,
the middle-aged and rather awkward husband--a decidedly solemn and
bewhiskered person--studied him and finally observed: "Young
fella, you seem to be a nice, brisk sort of boy--rather better than
most we've seen so far, I must say."
"I certainly don't think that hotels are any place for boys,"
chirped up the wife of his bosom--a large and rotund person, who by
this time was busily employed inspecting an adjoining room. "I
certainly wouldn't want any of my boys to work in 'em--the way
people act."
"But here, young man," went on the elder, laying off his overcoat
and fishing in his trousers pocket. "You go down and get me three
or four evening papers if there are that many and a pitcher of ice-
water, and I'll give you fifteen cents when you get back."
"This hotel's better'n the one in Omaha, Pa," added the wife
sententiously. "It's got nicer carpets and curtains."
And as green as Clyde was, he could not help smiling secretly.
Openly, however, he preserved a masklike solemnity, seemingly
effacing all facial evidence of thought, and took the change and
went out. And in a few moments he was back with the ice-water and
all the evening papers and departed smilingly with his fifteen
cents.
But this, in itself, was but a beginning in so far as this
particular evening was concerned, for he was scarcely seated upon
the bench again, before he was called to room 529, only to be sent
to the bar for drinks--two ginger ales and two syphons of soda--and
this by a group of smartly-dressed young men and girls who were
laughing and chattering in the room, one of whom opened the door
just wide enough to instruct him as to what was wanted. But
because of a mirror over the mantel, he could see the party and one
pretty girl in a white suit and cap, sitting on the edge of a chair
in which reclined a young man who had his arm about her.
Clyde stared, even while pretending not to. And in his state of
mind, this sight was like looking through the gates of Paradise.
Here were young fellows and girls in this room, not so much older
than himself, laughing and talking and drinking even--not ice-cream
sodas and the like, but such drinks no doubt as his mother and
father were always speaking against as leading to destruction, and
apparently nothing was thought of it.
He bustled down to the bar, and having secured the drinks and a
charge slip, returned--and was paid--a dollar and a half for the
drinks and a quarter for himself. And once more he had a glimpse
of the appealing scene. Only now one of the couples was dancing to
a tune sung and whistled by the other two.
But what interested him as much as the visits to and glimpses of
individuals in the different rooms, was the moving panorama of the
main lobby--the character of the clerks behind the main desk--room
clerk, key clerk, mail clerk, cashier and assistant cashier. And
the various stands about the place--flower stand, news stand, cigar
stand, telegraph office, taxicab office, and all manned by
individuals who seemed to him curiously filled with the atmosphere
of this place. And then around and between all these walking or
sitting were such imposing men and women, young men and girls all
so fashionably dressed, all so ruddy and contented looking. And
the cars or other vehicles in which some of them appeared about
dinner time and later. It was possible for him to see them in the
flare of the lights outside. The wraps, furs, and other belongings
in which they appeared, or which were often carried by these other
boys and himself across the great lobby and into the cars or the
dining-room or the several elevators. And they were always of such
gorgeous textures, as Clyde saw them. Such grandeur. This, then,
most certainly was what it meant to be rich, to be a person of
consequence in the world--to have money. It meant that you did
what you pleased. That other people, like himself, waited upon
you. That you possessed all of these luxuries. That you went how,
where and when you pleased.
Chapter 7
And so, of all the influences which might have come to Clyde at
this time, either as an aid or an injury to his development,
perhaps the most dangerous for him, considering his temperament,
was this same Green-Davidson, than which no more materially
affected or gaudy a realm could have been found anywhere between
the two great American mountain ranges. Its darkened and cushioned
tea-room, so somber and yet tinted so gayly with colored lights,
was an ideal rendezvous, not only for such inexperienced and eager
flappers of the period who were to be taken by a show of luxury,
but also for those more experienced and perhaps a little faded
beauties, who had a thought for their complexions and the
advantages of dim and uncertain lights. Also, like most hotels of
its kind, it was frequented by a certain type of eager and
ambitious male of not certain age or station in life, who counted
upon his appearance here at least once, if not twice a day, at
certain brisk and interesting hours, to establish for himself the
reputation of man-about-town, or rounder, or man of wealth, or
taste, or attractiveness, or all.
And it was not long after Clyde had begun to work here that he was
informed by these peculiar boys with whom he was associated, one or
more of whom was constantly seated with him upon the "hop-bench,"
as they called it, as to the evidence and presence even here--it
was not long before various examples of the phenomena were pointed
out to him--of a certain type of social pervert, morally
disarranged and socially taboo, who sought to arrest and interest
boys of their type, in order to come into some form of illicit
relationship with them, which at first Clyde could not grasp. The
mere thought of it made him ill. And yet some of these boys, as he
was now informed--a certain youth in particular, who was not on the
same watch with him at this time--were supposed to be of the mind
that "fell for it," as one of the other youths phrased it.
And the talk and the palaver that went on in the lobby and the
grill, to say nothing of the restaurants and rooms, were sufficient
to convince any inexperienced and none-too-discerning mind that the
chief business of life for any one with a little money or social
position was to attend a theater, a ball-game in season, or to
dance, motor, entertain friends at dinner, or to travel to New
York, Europe, Chicago, California. And there had been in the lives
of most of these boys such a lack of anything that approached
comfort or taste, let alone luxury, that not unlike Clyde, they
were inclined to not only exaggerate the import of all that they
saw, but to see in this sudden transition an opportunity to partake
of it all. Who were these people with money, and what had they
done that they should enjoy so much luxury, where others as good
seemingly as themselves had nothing? And wherein did these latter
differ so greatly from the successful? Clyde could not see. Yet
these thoughts flashed through the minds of every one of these
boys.
At the same time the admiration, to say nothing of the private
overtures of a certain type of woman or girl, who inhibited perhaps
by the social milieu in which she found herself, but having means,
could invade such a region as this, and by wiles and smiles and the
money she possessed, ingratiate herself into the favor of some of
the more attractive of these young men here, was much commented
upon.
Thus a youth named Ratterer--a hall-boy here--sitting beside him
the very next afternoon, seeing a trim, well-formed blonde woman of
about thirty enter with a small dog upon her arm, and much bedecked
with furs, first nudged him and, with a faint motion of the head
indicating her vicinity, whispered, "See her? There's a swift one.
I'll tell you about her sometime when I have time. Gee, the things
she don't do!"
"What about her?" asked Clyde, keenly curious, for to him she
seemed exceedingly beautiful, most fascinating.
"Oh, nothing, except she's been in with about eight different men
around here since I've been here. She fell for Doyle"--another
hall-boy whom by this time Clyde had already observed as being the
quintessence of Chesterfieldian grace and airs and looks, a youth
to imitate--"for a while, but now she's got some one else."
"Really?" inquired Clyde, very much astonished and wondering if
such luck would ever come to him.
"Surest thing you know," went on Ratterer. "She's a bird that way--
never gets enough. Her husband, they tell me, has a big lumber
business somewhere over in Kansas, but they don't live together no
more. She has one of the best suites on the sixth, but she ain't
in it half the time. The maid told me."
This same Ratterer, who was short and stocky but good-looking and
smiling, was so smooth and bland and generally agreeable that Clyde
was instantly drawn to him and wished to know him better. And
Ratterer reciprocated that feeling, for he had the notion that
Clyde was innocent and inexperienced and that he would like to do
some little thing for him if he could.
The conversation was interrupted by a service call, and never
resumed about this particular woman, but the effect on Clyde was
sharp. The woman was pleasing to look upon and exceedingly well-
groomed, her skin clear, her eyes bright. Could what Ratterer had
been telling him really be true? She was so pretty. He sat and
gazed, a vision of something which he did not care to acknowledge
even to himself tingling the roots of his hair.
And then the temperaments and the philosophy of these boys--
Kinsella, short and thick and smooth-faced and a little dull, as
Clyde saw it, but good-looking and virile, and reported to be a
wizard at gambling, who, throughout the first three days at such
times as other matters were not taking his attention, had been good
enough to continue Hegglund's instructions in part. He was a more
suave, better spoken youth than Hegglund, though not so attractive
as Ratterer, Clyde thought, without the latter's sympathetic
outlook, as Clyde saw it.
And again, there was Doyle--Eddie--whom Clyde found intensely
interesting from the first, and of whom he was not a little
jealous, because he was so very good-looking, so trim of figure,
easy and graceful of gesture, and with so soft and pleasing a
voice. He went about with an indescribable air which seemed to
ingratiate him instantly with all with whom he came in contact--the
clerks behind the counter no less than the strangers who entered
and asked this or that question of him. His shoes and collar were
so clean and trim, and his hair cut and brushed and oiled after a
fashion which would have become a moving-picture actor. From the
first Clyde was utterly fascinated by his taste in the matter of
dress--the neatest of brown suits, caps, with ties and socks to
match. He should wear a brown-belted coat just like that. He
should have a brown cap. And a suit as well cut and attractive.
Similarly, a not unrelated and yet different effect was produced by
that same youth who had first introduced Clyde to the work here--
Hegglund--who was one of the older and more experienced bell-hops,
and of considerable influence with the others because of his genial
and devil-may-care attitude toward everything, outside the exact
line of his hotel duties. Hegglund was neither as schooled nor as
attractive as some of the others, yet by reason of a most avid and
dynamic disposition--plus a liberality where money and pleasure
were concerned, and a courage, strength and daring which neither
Doyle nor Ratterer nor Kinsella could match--a strength and daring
almost entirely divested of reason at times--he interested and
charmed Clyde immensely. As he himself related to Clyde, after a
time, he was the son of a Swedish journeyman baker who some years
before in Jersey City had deserted his mother and left her to make
her way as best she could. In consequence neither Oscar nor his
sister Martha had had any too much education or decent social
experience of any kind. On the contrary, at the age of fourteen he
