To Him That Hath. Scott Leroy
redder.
"Who've you worked for?"
To mention here his four years of writing would be absurd. "No one," he stammered – "that is, I've had no business experience."
The superintendent's reply came out sharply: "No experience – no references – can't use you. Good morning."
David stumbled out, not noticing the relief his dejection gave the other applicants waiting outside the office. He saw the difficulty of his situation with a new, startling clearness; the superintendent had summed it up with business-like conciseness – "no experience, no references." A sudden fear, a sudden consternation, clutched him. Would he ever be able to pass that great wall standing between him and a position? – that wall builded of his prison record, of no experience, of no references?
Whether or not, he must try. He hurried to another office that had advertised for help, and to another, and to another – and so on for days. Usually he was turned away because there was really no work, but several times because to the penetrating questions he could return only his distrust-rousing answers. His courage tried to escape; but he caught it and held it, desperately.
Saturday evening an expressman delivered a box sent by his old New Jersey landlady. The charge was a dollar, and the dollar's payment was a tragedy. The box contained only a few of the things he had left behind him. His landlady, though kind, was careless, his things had become scattered during the four years, and the contents of the box were all she had been able to get together. There were a few of his books, a few photographs and prints, a few ornaments, a pair of boxing gloves, most of his manuscripts, and an overcoat. The overcoat at least was worth having, with cool weather but a few weeks off.
The second week was an elaboration of the first few days, and the first half of the third was the same. Then he had three days' work at addressing envelopes – girls' work and boys' work, for which he was paid eighty-five cents a day. Then the search again.
At length he found a place. It was in a small department store in One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street – a store that in fifteen years had developed from a notion shop occupying a mere hole in the wall. The proprietor was one of those men who do not see the master chances, the thousands and the millions, but who see a multitude of little chances, the pennies and the dollars. He squeezed his creditors, his customers, his shopgirls – kept open later than other stores to squeeze a few last drops of profit from the day. His success was the sum of thousands of petty advantages.
When David came to him he saw that here was a man in cruel need. The labour of a man in cruel need is yours at your own price – is, in fact, a bargain. He had had enough experience with bargains in merchandise to know that when a rarely good bargain offers it is best to snap it up and not question too closely into the reasons for its cheapness. So he offered David a place in the kitchen furnishing department. Salary, five dollars a week.
David accepted. His first week's salary, minus ten cents a day for car fare and ten cents for luncheon, amounted to three dollars and eighty cents. He had begun a second month in his room, and his landlady, seeing how poor he was, again demanded her rent in advance. After paying her, David had a dollar and a quarter left. But he had a job – a poor job, but still a job.
The following Sunday afternoon, as he sat at his window, pretending to read, but in reality staring dreamily down through the spider's-web of clothes lines into the deep, dreary backyard, Kate Morgan came in. It was the first time he had seen her since her visit of a month before, though he had called several times at her flat, to be told by her father that she was away at work.
"Good afternoon!" she cried, and giving him her hand she marched in before he could speak. "Take the chair yourself this time," she said, and sat down on the bed, her feet hanging clear.
She wore a black tailored suit and a beplumed hat. Evidently she had just come in from walking, for the warm colour of the late October air was in her cheeks. There was no doubt about it this time – she was pretty. And there was a lightness, a sauciness, in her manner that had not showed on her previous visit.
"Well, sir, how've you been?" she demanded, after David had taken the chair.
He tried, somewhat heavily, to fit his mood to hers. "I can't say I've cornered the happiness market. You haven't noticed a rise in quotations, have you?"
"Nope," she said, swinging her feet – and David had to see that they were very shapely and in neat patent leather shoes, and that the ankles were very trim. "I just got back this morning. How's dad been? And how many loans has he stuck you for?"
"To be exact, he's tried seven times and failed seven times."
"Good! But dad's better now than he used to be. When I first began to go away I'd leave him enough money to last for a week, or till I'd be home again. He always went off on a spree – never failed. So now I mail him thirty cents every day. It ain't quite enough to live decent on, and at the same time it ain't quite enough to get drunk on. See? So I guess he keeps pretty sober."
"I guess he does," said David, not quite able to restrain a smile. "But how've you been?"
"Me?" She shook her head with a doleful little air. "I've been having a regular hell of a time. I've been nurse girl in a swell house on Fifth Avenue. It's built out of gold and diamonds and such stuff. The missus was one of these society head-liners. You know the sort – good shape, good complexion, swell dresses, and that's all. Somebody made the dresses, her make-up box made her complexion, and her corset made her figure. Soul, heart, brain – pst! Once every day or two she'd come to the nursery just long enough to rub a bit of her complexion on the children's faces. And she treated me like I wasn't there. Oh, but wouldn't I like to wring her neck! But I'll get square with her, you bet!"
She gave a grimly threatening jerk of her little head, then smiled again. "But what's your luck? Got a job yet?"
"Yes."
"What doing?"
David shrunk from telling this brilliantly-dressed creature how lowly his work was, but he had to confess. "Clerking in a department store."
"How much do you make?"
That awful inquisitiveness!
"Five dollars a week."
Her black eyes stared at him, then suddenly she leaned back and laughed. He reddened. She straightened up, bent forward till her elbows rested on her knees, and gazed into his face.
"Five – dollars – a – week!" she said. "And you a king crook!" She shook her head wonderingly. "And, please sir, how do you like being honest at five dollars a week?"
"Hardly as well as I would at six," he answered, trying to speak lightly.
She was silent for almost a minute, her eyes incredulously on him. "Mr. David Aldrich," she remarked slowly, "you're a fool!"
He was startled – and his wonderment about her returned. "I've often said the same," he agreed. "But do you mind telling why you think so?"
"A man that can make his hundreds a week, works for his living at five."
He assumed such innocence of appearance as he could command. "I'm a little surprised to hear this, especially from a woman who also works for her living."
Her look of wonderment gave place to a queer little smile. "Hum!" She straightened up. "D'you mind if I smoke?" she asked abruptly, drawing a silver cigarette case from a pocket of her skirt.
The women David had known had not smoked. But he said "no" and accepted a cigarette when she offered him the open box. She struck a match, held the flame first to him, then lit her own cigarette.
She drew deeply. "To-day's the first time I've dared smoke for a month. Ah, but it's good!"
She stared again at David, and now with that penetrating gaze of her last visit. A minute passed. David grew very uncomfortable. Then she announced abruptly: "You're on the dead level!"
The queer little smile came back. "Yes, I work for my living. And I keep my flat, keep my father, dress myself, have plenty of money for good times, and put aside enough so that I can knock off work whenever I like – all on a maid's twenty a month. And how do you suppose I do it?"
David