The Wall Street Girl. Bartlett Frederick Orin
much pleasanter staying just as we are.”
“We can’t be engaged all our lives,” he protested.
“We can be engaged as long as we wish, can’t we?”
“I want to marry you as soon as I can.”
Her eyes brightened and she placed a soft hand upon his arm.
“That’s nice of you, Don,” she said. “But you don’t know what a frightfully expensive burden I’ll be as a wife.”
“If I earned, to start with, say fifty dollars a week–would you marry me on that?”
“If I did, what would we live on?” she inquired.
“Well, I have the house. That’s provided for–all except the table.”
“But if I spent the fifty dollars for a new hat, then what would we have left for provisions?”
“You mustn’t spend it all on a new hat,” he warned.
“Then, there are gowns and–oh, lots of things you don’t know anything about.”
“Couldn’t you get along with a little less?”
She thought a moment.
“I don’t see how,” she decided. “I never get anything I don’t want.”
“That’s something,” he nodded approvingly. “Then you think I must earn more than fifty a week?”
“I only know that Dad gives me an allowance of ten thousand a year, and there’s never anything left,” she answered.
“Ten thousand a year!” he exclaimed.
“Everything is so expensive to-day, Don. All this talk sounds frightfully vulgar, but–there’s no use pretending, is there?”
“Not a bit,” he answered. “If ten thousand a year is what you need, ten thousand a year is what I must earn.”
“I don’t believe it’s very hard, because Dad does it so easily,” she declared.
“I’ll get it,” he nodded confidently. “And, now that it’s all settled, let’s forget it. Come over to the piano and sing for me.”
He sat down before the keys and played her accompaniments, selecting his own songs. They ran through some of the latest opera successes, and then swung off to the simpler and older things. It was after “Annie Laurie” that he rose and looked deep into her eyes.
“I’ll get it for you,” he said soberly.
“Oh, Don!” she whispered. “Sometimes nothing seems important but just you.”
CHAPTER IV
CONCERNING SANDWICHES
The arrangement that Barton made for his late client’s son was to enter the banking house of Carter, Rand & Seagraves, on a salary of twelve hundred dollars a year. Don found the letter at the Harvard Club the next morning, and immediately telephoned Barton.
“Look here!” he exclaimed. “I appreciate what you’ve tried to do and all that, but what in thunder good is twelve hundred dollars a year?”
“It is at least twelve hundred more than you have now,” suggested Barton.
“But how can I live on it?”
“You must remember you have the house–”
“Hang the house,” Don interrupted. “I must eat and smoke and buy clothes, mustn’t I? Besides, there’s Frances. She needs ten thousand a year.”
“I have no doubt but that, in time, a man of your ability–”
“How long a time?”
“As to that I am not prepared to give an opinion,” replied Barton.
“Because it isn’t when I’m eighty that I want it.”
“I should say the matter was entirely in your own hands. This at least offers you an opening, and I advise you to accept it. However, you must decide for yourself; and if at any later date I may be of service–”
Don returned to the lounge to think the matter over. It was ten o’clock and he had not yet breakfasted. As he had neglected to send any provisions to the house, Nora, acting upon his orders of the day before, had not prepared anything for him–there was nothing to prepare.
However, whether he ate breakfast or not was a detail. That is to say, it was a detail when he left the house; but now, after the brisk walk to the club in the snapping cold air, it had grown in importance. Watson, on his way into the dining-room, passed him.
“Join me?” he asked, waving a greeting with the morning paper.
“Thanks,” answered Don. “Guess I’ll wait a bit.”
Watson went on.
Don returned to a consideration of Barton’s proposal. He was forced to admit that the old lawyer had an irritating knack of ignoring all incidental issues and stripping a problem to a statement of irrefutable fact. It was undeniable, for example, that what Don might desire in the way of salary did not affect the truth of Barton’s contention that twelve hundred dollars was a great deal more than nothing. With a roof over his head assured him, it was possible that he might, with economy, be able at least to keep alive on this salary. That, of course, was a matter to be considered. As for Frances, she was at present well provided for and need not be in the slightest affected by the smallness of his income. Then, there was the possibility of a rapid advance. He had no idea how those things were arranged, but his limited observation was to the effect that his friends who went into business invariably had all the money they needed, and that most of his older acquaintances–friends of his father–were presidents and vice-presidents with unlimited bank accounts. Considering these facts, Don grew decidedly optimistic.
In the mean time his hunger continued to press him. His body, like a greedy child, demanded food. Watson came out and, lighting a fresh cigarette, sank down comfortably into a chair next him.
“What’s the matter, Don–off your feed?” he inquired casually.
“Something of the sort,” nodded Don.
“Party last night?”
“No; guess I haven’t been getting exercise enough.”
He rose. Somehow, Watson bored him this morning.
“I’m going to take a hike down the Avenue. S’long.”
Don secured his hat, gloves, and stick, and started from the club at a brisk clip.
From Forty-fourth Street to the Twenties was as familiar a path as any in his life. He had traversed it probably a thousand times. Yet, this morning it suddenly became almost as strange as some street in Kansas City or San Francisco.
There were three reasons for this, any one of which would have accounted for the phenomenon: he was on his way to secure a job; he had in his pocket just thirteen cents; and he was hungry.
The stores before which he always stopped for a leisurely inspection of their contents took on a different air this morning. Quite automatically he paused before one and another of them and inspected the day’s display of cravats and waistcoats. But, with only thirteen cents in his pocket, a new element entered into his consideration of these things–the element of cost. It was at the florist’s that his situation was brought home to him even more keenly. Frances liked flowers, and she liked to receive them from him. Here were roses that looked as if they had been plucked for her. But they were behind a big plate-glass window. He had never noted before that, besides being transparent, plate-glass was also thick and hard. And he was hungry. The fact continually intruded itself.
At last he reached the address that Barton had given him. “Carter, Rand & Seagraves, Investment Securities,” read the inscription on the window. He passed through the revolving doors and entered the office.
A boy in buttons approached and took his card.
“Mr.