CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3529.B845N5 
 
 New men for old. 
 
 3 1924 021 651 678 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021651678 
 
NEW MEN FOR OLD 
 
NEW MEN FOR OLD 
 
 BY 
 
 HOWARD VINCENT O'BRIEN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 
 IQ14 
 
Copyright, 1914, by 
 Howard Vincent O'Brien 
 
 Copyright, 1914, by 
 Mitchell Kennerley 
 
 Printed in America 
 
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 
 
 TO Mr WIFE 
 
 THAT TRIUNE GRACE, fTHOSE 
 
 FAITH, HOPE AND CHARITY 
 
 MADE IT POSSIBLE 
 
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the 
 
 Master shall blame; 
 And no one shall work for money, and no one shall 
 
 work for fame. 
 But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his 
 
 separate star, 
 Shall draw the Thing as he sees it for the God of 
 
 Things as They Are ! 
 
 — Kipling 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Chapteb Page 
 
 I — ^Penniless n 
 
 II — ^An Old Picture Restored 32 
 
 III — ^Bondage 48 
 
 IV— I Give Up Cigarettes 66 
 
 V — Near-Bohemia 87 
 
 VI— Ten Strike 119 
 
 VII — "Working People" — and a Surprise 129 
 
 VIII— Fired 153 
 
 IX— The Egoist 165 
 
 X — More Poetry Than Poets Dream of 184 
 
 XI — Promotion — and a Sentimental SpHt 194 
 
 XII— The Oldest Trade in the World 218 
 
 XIII — Left in Command 237 
 
 XrV— The Dragon Lifts His Head 246 
 
 XV — Don Quixote 262 
 
 XVT — The Artistic Temperament 278 
 
 XVII— Two Corks— and a Clean Slate 296 
 
 XVIII— The Old Order Changeth 315 
 
The Joy of the Working 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PENNILESS 
 
 YOUR name is . . . ?" 
 "Haxlaa Chandos." • 
 "Oh . , . just a moment, please." The giri 
 took my card and disappeared into an ofSce marked 
 "Private." I wondered what caused the curious inflection ia 
 hervoiceatmyname. Presently she returned. "Mr.Dever- 
 eaux will see you directly," she said, eyeing me with what I 
 felt was unnatural curiosity. I thanked her and sat down. 
 I could still feel her gaze fastened upon me. It annoyed 
 me. Still, I suppose I must have looked rather exotic. 
 Direct from Paris, as I was, I was attired, with my stick 
 and gaiters and lemon-colored gloves, and my waxe^ 
 moustache, more for the boulevards than for a Chicago 
 lawyer's office. 
 
 A sleepless night and all the circumstances of my trip 
 conspired to make me very nervous, and presently I fell 
 to wandering around the office, idly studying the prints 
 and photographs that hung upon the walls. That explaiw 
 
 II 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 how I happened to be near the private office, which was a 
 little ajar, and to hear my name spoken by someone within. 
 Wrongly — ^but very naturally — I dallied with the picture 
 I was examining. 
 
 "This is no time for joking," I heard the same voice 
 say. "It's a . . . damned disagreeable business!" 
 it finished almost explosively. 
 
 "Well, then — " there was a suggestion of a chuckle in 
 the reply — "as the senior partner . . . 'twould seem 
 as if it were up to you." 
 
 A short pause followed. Then I heard the first speaker 
 again. "Confound it, Deakin . . . give me some 
 help. How am I to go about it?" 
 
 "It would be easier if I knew something about the lad," 
 the other replied. "But I don't." 
 
 "That's it ... I don't know much myself. Grad- 
 uated from Yale several years ago — and then gorgeous 
 idleness abroad. Too much rich man's son, y'know." I 
 felt my ears redden guiltily and I wondered angrily if the 
 office girl noticed them. "Never earned a cent in his life," 
 thevoice continued. "I tell you, Deakin, I loathe this job." 
 
 "It's not going to get any easier," said the other dryly. 
 "The poor devil's waiting out there now." 
 
 A mingling of shame and fear of detection made me 
 move quickly on to a safer position. A few moments later 
 the young lady held open the door to the private office 
 for me to enter. 
 
 12 
 
PENNILESS 
 
 I found myself in a fairly large room, plainly but richly 
 furnished. It was not a chamber in which frivolity could 
 flourish. As I had surmised, there were two occupants. 
 One, tall, thin and serious of mien, I assumed to be Dever- 
 eaox. Tfie other, rotund, with something of a jocund 
 twinkle in his eye, must therefore be Deakin. 
 
 Devereaux held my card in his long fingers and twisted it 
 nervously. For several seconds he stared at me without 
 speaking. Deakin bit his lip in an embarrassed annoyance 
 that was almost comic. 
 
 "My name is Chandos," I said presently, to end the 
 uncomfortable situation. My words seemed to recall 
 Devereaux to himself, and he held out his hand. 
 
 "I must ask your pardon, sir," he said, very gravely, 
 "for the rudeness of our reception. Its explanation and 
 its excuse must lie in the great curiosity we have felt to 
 know you as well personally as we have er — indirectly, 
 as it were. My name is Devereaux," he added, "and 
 this is Mr. Deakin." 
 
 I bowed without knowing just what reply to make. I 
 was relieved when Deakin, after shaking my hand warmly, 
 suggested that I sit down. I took the only available 
 chair, facing Devereaux, who sat at his desk. As the 
 desk was placed in the center of the room, my face was 
 thrown full into the light, while his remained in shadow. 
 It was, of course, quite a fortuitous arrangement, but it 
 gave me an uncomfortable feeling of being analyzed. 
 
 13 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 For a inoment or two Devereaux toyed with the inkwell 
 ©n his desk, while Deakin looked out of the window, 
 whistling softly to himself. Then the senior partner 
 coughed. 
 
 "You — er — ^received a cable from us . . ." 
 
 "Concerning my father's death." I completed his 
 sentence for him. Apparently he was not cognizant of 
 the relations between me and my father, and he was 
 endeavoring to treat the situation delicately. I was 
 fateful for his kindness, of course, but a little impatient 
 at his slowness. 
 
 He coughed again, but somewhat less constrainedly. 
 "You doubtless understand," he said, "that we were your 
 father's attorneys — ^that we — er — are his executors?" 
 
 I nodded my head, and he went on more easily. 
 
 "I wish to assure you, Mr. Chandos, before going into 
 any details of the sad matter that has brought you here, 
 that should you — er — ever find yourself in any difficulties, 
 you will find us both ready with every assistance in our 
 power. We were friends of your father, first, you know, 
 and lawyers afterward." 
 
 The gravity with which he uttered these generalities 
 was incomprehensible to me, and I wished that he would 
 proceed at once to a lucid exposition of what I was to 
 expect and what was expected of me. I was more than 
 a little anxious to be on my way back to France, and there 
 was an intimation of possible detention in the lawyer's 
 
 14 
 
PENNILESS 
 
 words that disturbed me. I nodded non-committally, 
 however, and waited for him to proceed. 
 
 There was another long pause. He cleared his throat, 
 and tightened his necktie carefully. 
 
 "The fact is, my boy — er — ^your father's estate was not 
 quite as large as we — as you — ah — ^might have expected. 
 And I— er— " 
 
 "That is frequently the case, isn't it?" said I, in an 
 effort to encourage his progress. "But just what was 
 . . . the estate?" 
 
 "Well — er — ^it was rather . , ." 
 
 In my effort to fathom the senior partner's curious 
 demeanor, I had almost forgotten Deakin, sitting silent 
 in the half light. Suddenly like a pot boiling over, he 
 stood up, and waving aside Devereaux's timorously 
 detaining hand, addressed me impetuously. 
 
 "Young man," he said almost excitedly. "If Dever- 
 eaux can't teU you the truth ... I will!" Then 
 he looked inquiringly at his partner, as if a little ashamed 
 at the temerity of his outburst. "Shall I?" he seemed to 
 ask, and when the older man nodded his head, he turned 
 to me again. 
 
 "You must forgive me if I speak brutally, but it seems 
 to me that when one has a blow to give, he should give 
 it outright." 
 
 "I qtiite agree with you, Mr. Deakin," I said, though 
 not in the least comprehending what he meant. 
 
 IS 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "Mr. Chandos, your father's estate is — ^absolutely nil. 
 He left not one penny!" 
 
 Looking back on it now it seems strange that I should 
 not have anticipated something of the sort. But I did 
 not. Money had always come to me with such regular 
 certainty and plenitude that the thought of any other 
 possibility had never even occurred to me. Deakin's 
 words shocked me beyond expression. It was as if the 
 bottom of my world had suddenly fallen away, leaving 
 me suspended in a curious, emotionless fog of complete 
 incomprehension. It was through no natural stoicism 
 that the ruin of my fortunes was accomplished with an 
 utter absence of histrionics, but because I did not know 
 what ruin meant. My reply was commonplace almost 
 to ludicrousness, and Deakin, who I felt detested "scenes," 
 showed his gratitude plainly. Devereaux, with an in- 
 stinct for the dramatic, seemed vaguely disappointed. 
 
 "So — ^gentlemen — ^I am busted?" Those were my 
 exact words. Thus do we meet our crises. We do our 
 weeping and our ranting in anticipation or retrospect. 
 Great mental shocks, like physical ones, are painless at 
 the moment. 
 
 For a minute or two we sat in silence. My gaze was 
 fastened on the window, and I was wondering less about 
 my immediate difficulties than about those of a blue- 
 bottle who was endeavoring to dive through the decep- 
 tively transparent glass to freedom. His futile efforts to 
 
 i6 
 
PENNILESS 
 
 penetrate the walls of a prison that he could not tinder- 
 stand was a prison, presented a ctuious analogy to the 
 futile efforts of humanity to escape the shackles of Fate. 
 But my meditations were ended by Deakin, who put his 
 hand on my shoulder, speaking to me in a voice that was 
 strangely tender. 
 
 "My boy," he said softly, "you might as well know the 
 facts entire. I don't think you're the kind of man to 
 voluntarily delude yourself, and I don't want to create 
 false hopes. Your father's death — er — occurred at a very- 
 unfortunate time. He was spread out rather thin. Had 
 he lived — er — all would have been well. But — well — 
 without going into a maze of detail that would only con- 
 fuse you, suffice it that — ^that — ever}rthing — absolutely 
 everjrthing — ^went." 
 
 "Then I am not merely legally penniless — ^but actu- 
 aUy so?" 
 
 Deakin smiled faintly at the distinction, but instantly 
 resumed his gentle gravity. "Yes. That is so. You 
 haven't one penny in the world — save what you may 
 have saved." 
 
 I laughed outright at the implication. But the lawyer 
 went on without noticing the interruption. 
 
 "Nor can I honestly hold forth any hope that you will 
 ever secure anything as your father's heir." 
 
 I smiled again. Both men must have thought that I 
 quite failed to realize the gravity of the situation. And 
 
 17 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 in a way they were right. I could not realize poverty 
 any more than the average man can realize a theological 
 hell. Some understanding of the fact seemed to run 
 through Devereaux's mind; for he came over and stood 
 beside his partner. 
 
 "My offer of assistance was meant most sincerely," he 
 said, a little huskily. "You must look upon us as your 
 friends. We really want to help you, for your father's 
 sake . . ." 
 
 Deakin expressed the same thought more concretely. 
 Abruptly he sat down and seized a pad of paper. 
 
 "What you've got to find, Mr. Chandos — or what we've 
 got to find for you, if you'll let us — is a substitute for your 
 allowance. Now let's get down to cases." 
 
 "You mean, I suppose, that I ought to get a job?" 
 
 "Precisely. Now for what sort of work are you best 
 fitted?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Well, what appeals to you?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 Deakin looked at me narrowly. I suppose my words, 
 for all their candor, struck him as extraordinarily churlish. 
 "Oh, come now," he cried, "a young man with your edu- 
 cation and health, talking like that . . . you'll 
 pardon me — ^but it's preposterous!" 
 
 "My dear sir," I said patiently, "my education has been 
 
 i8 
 
PENNILESS 
 
 excellent — ^but I have been educated for spending money- 
 s—not for earning it." 
 
 "You have studied art, I believe?" asked Devereaux 
 presently, charitably overlooking what he must have 
 considered an extremely jejune cynicism. 
 
 I nodded my head affirmatively, and Deakin's pencil 
 began to move. "Good," he cried; "we'll boost you as 
 thp dernier cri from gay Paree. We'll have you paint 
 our portraits to begin with, eh, Devereaux? The thing 
 to do, young man, is to get a studio, and arrange to execute 
 your commissions. Why, we'll have . . ." 
 
 "I'm sorry," I broke in ruefully, "but I'm not a painter 
 — ^I'm only an amateur." Never before had the diflEerence 
 between work and play been brought home more clearly 
 tome. 
 
 But Deakin was undismayed. "Well, then — ^how about 
 doing critical work? I'm sure we could get you a place on 
 one of the papers. You wouldn't make a fortune, of 
 course, but it would be a start. How does that strike 
 you?" 
 
 "I have a better suggestion than that," interrupted 
 Devereaux. "The director of the Art Institute is a very 
 dear friend of mine, and I am sure that he could find a 
 place for such a man as you." 
 
 I murmured some sort of a reply, but I dared not voice 
 the thoughts that sprang up in my mind. I had more 
 
 19 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 than my share of pride, and where I should have been 
 grateful, I was bitter. 
 
 "How about the Institute . . . does that appeal 
 to you?" Devereaux was amiably insistent. 
 
 For reply I picked up my gloves and stick, and rose to 
 my feet. "You are both very kind — exceedingly kind." 
 I tried to make my voice express the sincere appreciation 
 I felt. "But if you don't mind— I— er— don't think I'll 
 make any decisions immediately. I have to adjust my- 
 self to the new order of things. You understand, don't 
 you?" 
 
 Devereaiuc's tone was a trifle dubious, but he was a 
 gentleman to the point of hypocrisy, and he hastened to 
 agree with me. "Yes, of course — ^but — er . . ." 
 
 "But beggars shouldn't be choosers, eh?" I finished for 
 him rather churlishly. "You're quite right, of course. 
 But I don't think you in the least understand my position. 
 To you I face merely the necessity of earning a living. I 
 can't tell you how much more than a living I have to get. 
 I have to acquire an entire new philosophy of life. I 
 came into this ofiSce with the expectation of securing a 
 fortune and going back to idleness. I leave it with all 
 my past wiped out — I've been stood on my head — I've 
 got to begin all over again. Why, Mr. Devereaux, I'm 
 going through childbirth again. I'm thirty-two years 
 old — and my eyes aren't quite open yet." 
 
 There were a few more words, in which I learned the 
 
 20 
 
PENNILESS 
 
 drcumstances of my father's sudden death, and his pathet- 
 ically lonely burial from the Chicago Club. Then I 
 bowed my thanks, and turned to leave. But as I put my 
 hand on the door-knob, Devereaux caught my arm. 
 "Here," he said quickly; "this may be of use to you — please 
 take it." I recoiled, and I suppose my face must have 
 hardened slightly; for Deakin blvirted out explosively, 
 "Young man, so far you've displayed rather tmusual com- 
 mon sense. Don't destroy the illusion. That isn't 
 charity — ^it's a grub-stake. Don't be an ass!" 
 
 Devereaux's almost feminine kindliness was very 
 appealing, but Deakin's bltmt masculinity pleased me 
 even more. It made me feel less like a dependent. With- 
 out further hesitation I held out my hand for the money. 
 
 "For men of financial acumen, it strikes me you are 
 taking an extraordinary risk," I said smilingly. 
 
 "That isn't the risk I'm taking," said Deakin with an 
 answering smile. "I'm gambling on my judgment. If 
 I lose I'll sustain — ^well . . . you simply aren't 
 going to let me lose, are you?" 
 
 Devereaux, kind but conventional, seized my hands 
 and murmured a fervent "God bless you," and Deakin 
 followed me with an equally characteristic "Go to it, 
 young chap!" Then the door closed on me, and I faced 
 the world. 
 
 On the street I stood to one side of the hurrying morning 
 crowds and pondered my next move. How different I 
 
 21 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 was from all the restless millions that surged about me — 
 all, seemingly, with a purpose and a destination. But 
 I could not go on thus musing on a street comer. The 
 questionings of my mind were silenced by the vague but 
 imperious damorings of my stomach. Thus does phi- 
 losophy resolve itself into physiology. I turned my steps 
 northward, along Michigan Avenue, toward the University 
 Club. 
 
 My contempt, my almost nauseous aversion for this 
 sprawling city of the plains was in no sense mere pose, 
 and consequently I made no effort to deny to myself that 
 I felt a very real thrill as I strode along what has been 
 called "the finest mile in the world." However unwill- 
 ingly, I had to admit at least a basis of reason in the boast. 
 The broad highways, polished by the hurrying motor 
 cars, flanked on one side by the closely massed splendor of 
 the monolithic office buildings, and balanced on the other 
 by the cold gray expanse of the Lake, offered a com- 
 position that found me candidly, if a little reluctantly, 
 appreciative. I recalled the remark of someone that 
 "the genius of the mediaeval cathedral builders finds its 
 modem expression in the sky-scrapers of America." The 
 words of Arnold Beimett came to me, too — "There's a 
 certain sort of poetry in men who can make a city like 
 this. They have a vision of their own. Such achieve- 
 ments are impossible without the vision." 
 
 So strongly did this unexpected feeling of admiration 
 
 22 
 
PENNILESS 
 
 possess me that I forgot the behests of hunger and crossed 
 over to that bare strip of turf between the Avenue and 
 the raihroad tracks, known euphemistically as Grant Park. 
 There I stood in more or less bewildered contemplation 
 of the city's magnificent sky-line. Then, as I grew more 
 conscious of the dreary desolation of the "park," I fell, 
 disdainfully, to contrasting its ugliness with the municipal 
 gardens of Europe. My momentary glimpse of beauty 
 seemed to vanish, like lightning in a fog, and in its place 
 I could see nothing but smoke, smell nothing but sul- 
 phurous fumes, taste nothing but soot, hear nothing but 
 bells and whistles and an indivisible crash of noises that 
 could not be named. With an involuntary shudder I 
 turned to cross the street again. 
 
 The door-man stopped me at the club, which was not 
 strange, for although I had been a member since leaving 
 college, I had never before been in the building. 
 
 I stopped in the foyer, frankly amazed. Oblivious to 
 the curious glances of the passers-by, I stood lost in admira- 
 tion. Delightedly I took in the treatment of mass, the 
 use of light, all the large effects. < Then, with the eye of a 
 craftsman, I walked curiously about, studying detail. 
 Sympathetically I noted the harmonious delicacies of 
 decoration, the profusion of rich, substantial wood carving, 
 the old world and old-fashioned massivity of construction 
 everywhere displayed. 
 
 I had heard, vaguely, in the ateliers, that this edifice 
 
 23 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 was something of a labor of love, that architects and de- 
 signers had conspired to make it a monument to their 
 genius, and that no cathedral builder of the twelfth cen- 
 tury had ever labored more zealously, more unselfishly — 
 or more adequately — ^than these imsung poets of a sordid 
 age had labored for their art. I had discounted these 
 tales as springing from the untutored egotism of a Philis- 
 tine community. But as I went upstairs and stood drink- 
 ing in the vast, spacious dignity of the Reading Room, 
 enjoying it as any man might, but at the same time ap- 
 preciating it as only an artist could, I was baffled, bewil- 
 dered at the gigantic paradoxicality of it all. Such ugli- 
 ness without . . . such beauty within. On one side 
 of the Avenue a "park" that the meanest village in the 
 old world would not tolerate, and on the other, edifices 
 that would have done honor to the hand of a Phidias. 
 
 "It's rather a remarkable room, isn't it ... for a 
 crude young town like this?" I heard a voice beside me 
 say — ^that of a complete stranger. But I timied, my 
 natural reserve quite melted away in the camaraderie 
 of the artist. 
 
 "It is superb!" I cried with real enthusiasm. "But 
 will you please explain — I am a stranger here, you know 
 — ^how a city that can produce a building like this will 
 endtu-e such a waste as that so-called 'park' across the 
 way?" 
 
 The stranger looked at me in astonishment for a moment, 
 
 24 
 
PENNILESS 
 
 an astonishment that seemed curiously tinged with a 
 personal resentment. Then he smiled suddenly 
 
 "Oh — ^that's not a park, exactly. It's a ball field. The 
 young fellows from the stores and offices get out there and 
 play ball in the noon hour and on holidays. I suppose it 
 might be more beautiful with flowers and grass and nice 
 gravel walks, with a fence arotmd it . . . but then 
 — ^it wouldn't be what it is now!" 
 
 What an explanation! Slight, inconclusive in itself, 
 but pregnant with so much significance. A play-ground 
 for the children of a larger growth. And yet this was a 
 city of more than two million people ... in many 
 waj^ America's truest metropolis — ^but in essence still a 
 village. I was to learn and forget many other lessons, 
 but never that of Grant ' 'Park." It was to stay with me 
 always, removing incomprehensibilities, explaining incon- 
 sistencies, a guiding light through the gloom of bewilder- 
 ment that was to fill much of my life thereafter. 
 
 As I sat smoking, after lunch, an imcomfortable sense 
 of loneliness assailed me. Of the stream of faces that 
 passed before me, none was familiar, and in no eye did I 
 catch a gleam of recognition for myself. That was in no 
 way strange, of course, but it made me feel painfully alien. 
 I had been bom in Chicago, but I had lived there very 
 little, and now, when I was called upon to pay the inevi- 
 table price of cosmopolitanism, it hurt. 
 
 There were very few in this great city, I reflected, who 
 
 25 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 knew me as anything but the vaguest of recollections. 
 My father had been a well-knovra figure in the business 
 world, but he and I had not even had our friends in com- 
 mon. Even his intimates were probably acquainted with 
 little more than the fact of my existence. 
 
 As I mused on my isolation, I fell to conning over 
 those I had known at all intimately in my boyhood. 
 They were all women, and with one exception, every 
 vestige save their names had vanished from my memory. 
 I had been very fond of the exception. I smiled as I 
 recalled how my adolescent fency had pictured her, and 
 what dreams I had had of the future. Nothing, I sup- 
 pose, can be more sweetly painful than this dallying with 
 the gentle, lovable ghosts of our youth: all regret at their 
 death is tempered with gladness that they were spared 
 the reality of life. Dorothy Gresham had been a slight 
 little thing, and it amused me to picture the dianges that 
 time mtist have efiEected in her. I saw her, in my mind's 
 eye, rotund and contented, with another name, and a 
 family. And when we tried to resume the old friendship, 
 we would find that advancing years had led us on diverg- 
 ing paths. Presently it would become merely a cordial 
 bow, an occasional meeting at someone's dinner table 
 and . . . heigho— the way o' the world! 
 
 As the great room began to empty, with the toilers 
 returning to their work, my loneliness grew more acute. 
 I alone had no place to go. For a little while I dallied 
 
 26 
 
PENNILESS 
 
 with the magazines, but that soon palled. I fancied that 
 I caught the club servants, unused to a leisure class, eyeing 
 me with incomprehension if not with disfavor, and I 
 waxed uncomfortable under their ftirtive scrutiny. 
 
 The more I ruminated the more uncomfortable my 
 situation became, and it was not long before I found my- 
 self again on the Avenue, headed north. 
 
 For a time the influence of the Club was upon me, but 
 as I passed the Public Library, leaving almost at a step 
 the magnificence of Michigan Avenue, and plunged into 
 the unadulterated ugliness of cobble-stone paved, ware- 
 house bordered Rush Street, the wings of my soul crum- 
 pled, and my spirit sank deep into a Slough of Despond. 
 Here and there Chicago presented manifestations of 
 beauty. But they were but incidents, mere adornment 
 to the real edifice, springing not from within, but brought 
 by expatriated outlanders from elsewhere. This, I told 
 myself, was the real city — a thing of blood and iron and 
 smoke and dollars, devoted utterly to the getting of bread 
 and the eating thereof. The spirit of the city was the 
 spirit of the day-laborer — to be bom, unasked — ^to labor 
 necessitously — ^to toil with his body, a mindless slave to 
 Mammon, until he is a slave no longer to Mammon — 
 but a slave to his toil. Hoarding his gold for those who 
 come after — and then, to die. Working always in the 
 gloom, because he will not lift his eyes to the light — and 
 
 27 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 finally, because he cannot. It was a city all body and no 
 souL 
 
 Bitter and contemptuous were my thoughts as I stood 
 on the bridge, gazing disdainfully up and down the River, 
 flowing turbidly between banks of ineffable ugliness. My 
 contempt was that of the artist, mingled with the bitter- 
 ness of the slave at the master that has bought him. So 
 this was to be my home! I thought of the Seine, the 
 Thames, the Rhine, the Nevsky, the Po . . . I closed 
 my eyes and saw the Pont Neuf , the Henri Quatre, the 
 Concorde . . . and then I opened them to the dilapi- 
 dated reality beneath me. With a shudder that was very 
 real I hurried on. 
 
 Ten minutes later I stood at the entrance to the Lake 
 Shore Drive, that unsurpassed highway which b^ins at 
 Chicago Avenue, and extends far out to the north, imtil 
 it merges itself in Sheridan Road, and then proceeds, 
 through tmle after mile of macadam, almost to Milwaukee 
 — ^ninety miles away. 
 
 I gasped as I stood at the old Water Tower, the city's 
 only "ruin," which, as the guide books say, has stood for 
 the fabulous period of forty years. As far as my eye could 
 reach, stretched a perfect pavement, lined on one side by 
 magnificent residences; and on the other by dose-cropped 
 sward, a stone quay — and the Lake. Trees and shrubs 
 were in profuse evidence, too. No Parisian boulevard, I 
 reflected, amazed, was ever cleaner than this. 
 
 28 
 
PENNILESS 
 
 Perplexedly I strolled over to a bench near the water's 
 edge, in an effort to bring my bewilderment to some con- 
 clusion. I seemed curiously unable to make up my mind 
 about things. Just as I would attain an attitude that 
 bore the marks of permanence — ^lo, a new vista would 
 burst upon my eyes, and I would have it all to do over 
 again. The words of a distinguished Frenchman came 
 to me with renewed meaning. "I cannot," he had said, 
 when asked by an interviewer to give his impressions of 
 Chicago, "do what you ask. I could not give my impres- 
 sions until I had lived here at least ten years, and I 
 could not interpret them if I hved here for a hundred. Your 
 city is too contradictory. I think one would have to 
 work here — ^for a lifetime — ^to understand your city at all." 
 
 The great city found me baffled, too. Subconsciously 
 the figure of the day-laborer returned to me, and as my 
 delighted gaze wandered up the Drive, I thought of a 
 toiler whose blind effort has brought him sudden, tmlooked- 
 for prosperity. I had a picture of an untutored man, 
 plebeian by ancestry — almost from conviction — wearing 
 a tattered cap, his face unshaven, dirty overalls covering 
 his body . . . but with a flawless ruby in his soiled 
 shirt, exquisite diamonds on his gnarled fingers, and 
 golden slippers on his clumsy feet. Leisurely I proceeded 
 up the Drive, scanning the few houses I remembered, and 
 studying the many that were new. Every step broi^ht 
 fresh astonishments, and I found it hard to believe that 
 
 29 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 so few years cotild have effected such a tremendous 
 metamorphosis. On the vacant lots where I had played 
 as a little boy, stood magnificent mansions, already old. 
 And it gave me a sharp pang to see a towering apartment 
 building on the spot where the house in which I was bom 
 had been. Even the old sea-wall, whose scaling had rep- 
 resented the acme of childhood daring, had given place 
 to a broad levee and promenade. Everjrthing was differ- 
 ent, and these inarticulate changes affected me just as 
 unpleasantly as had the strange faces at the Club. 
 
 It was about half past four when I stood before the 
 gray stone house on the comer, that I had once known so 
 well. Who inhabited it now? Could it be possible that 
 it alone, of all its surroundings, had undergone no changes 
 of occupancy? Or even more remarkable, was it con- 
 ceivable that those who dwelt within were still the same? 
 It was some time before I coidd muster sufficient cotirage 
 to mount the steps and ring the bell. 
 
 When the servant appeared, my resolution almost 
 failed me. I realized how much this tie with the old life 
 meant to me, and I feared to learn that it no longer existed. 
 It was in a voice that trembled a little that I inquired if 
 "this was Mr. Francis Gresham's residence." 
 
 My heart leaped at her affirmative nod. Hope was 
 resurrected, and I put my second question eagerly: 
 
 "Is . . . Miss Gresham . . . does . . . 
 er — Miss Gresham live here?" 
 
 30 
 
PENNILESS , 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Is she — er — at home?" 
 
 "Yes, sir— I think so." 
 
 My heart sang as I handed her my card. I was not 
 entirely cut off from the past after all. I followed the 
 servant into the house with the first real sensation of any- 
 thing like elation that I had experienced since arriving in 
 Chicago. 
 
 31 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 AN OLD PICTURE RESTORED 
 
 AS I stood waiting in the reception room my thoughts 
 were strangely mingled. On the one hand there 
 was relief that I was not a total stranger after all. 
 On the other, I felt something akin to regret that I 
 had thus voluntarily courted disappointment, 
 
 I conjured up a picture of the patrician loveliness that 
 had been Dorothy Gresham as a young girl — the girl who 
 had been my adolescent ideal. I comprehended for the 
 first time what a painful shock reality might give me. 
 
 Uncomfortably distraught, I wandered around the 
 room, waking old memories with the things I saw. Most 
 of the furnishings, of course, were new, but there was 
 enough to turn back the hands of time and cause a queer 
 tightening in my throat. Presently I stood before a 
 portrait that held me fascinated. 
 
 A pair of cold, steel-blue eyes stared down at me from 
 the canvas, and seemed to appraise me. Francis Gresham 
 had been only a faint shadow in my life, but always an 
 ominous one. I had always felt uncomfortable under 
 the taciturn scrutiny of Dorothy's father, and I squirmed 
 a little even before his portrait. But -there was something 
 in the old man's face that made one look again. The 
 
 32 
 
AN OLD PICTURE RESTORED 
 
 painter had caught the expression of the mouth splendidly. 
 Above a firm, almost protruding jaw it lay, forbidding 
 in its strength. At first it seemed entirely cruel and 
 relentless, but as I studied it, the lips seemed to move 
 sUghtly and almost smUe. It was a queer conceit, but it 
 made me feel much better. The picture had welcomed 
 me to its abode. It was as if the grim spirit of the toiling 
 city was trying to let me penetrate its rough exterior. 
 
 In many ways Gresham typified the city. He had 
 come to it as a penniless boy, and in the sweat of his brow 
 had helped to hew it from a frontier post to one of the 
 metropolises of the world. He had been a hard man, as 
 I remembered him, but his were hard times, and for all 
 his crimes, one could not deny him respect for the things 
 he had triumphed over. 
 
 My musings were suddenly interrrupted by the swish 
 of silk, and I turned sharply, my heart pounding against 
 my ribs. A girl — an amazingly young girl — stood in the 
 doorway. 
 
 "Harlan," she said simply. 
 
 "Dorothy!" My voice was a little husky. 
 
 For a long time we stood staring at each other, apprais- 
 ing, resurrecting old hopes, downing new suspicions. She 
 was the first to regain her composure, and her voice was 
 even. 
 
 "I'm glad — so glad — ^to see you again, Harlan. It's 
 been a long time. You have changed — a little." 
 
 33 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 I heaved a great sigh of relief, and there was nothing 
 forced about the smile that covered my face. I seized 
 her hand and held it until she drew it away. 
 
 "Oh — Dorothy — Dorothy — ^but it's good to see you! 
 You haven't an idea . . . what I feared. But you 
 haven't — ^not one little bit. And you've got the same 
 sweet smile. And the same little stray eyebrow." I 
 laughed happily. "Oh — ^it's certainly good!" 
 
 The last particle of restraint between us seemed to 
 vanish, and she laughed with me. 
 
 "You haven't changed so much either," she cried. 
 "The same observing boy you always were." 
 
 "I've spent some time observing you, my lady," I said 
 smiUngly. "Haven't I?" 
 
 Her soft, throaty chuckle was the sweetest music I 
 had heard in a long time . . . and I said so. 
 
 "I'm afraid you've become a flatterer!" she cried. I 
 thought her little trick of lifting her delicate eyebrows 
 was adorable. And I told her that, too. 
 
 "But, come," she said, after we had studied each other 
 a little longer. "Let's not stand here forever. Shall we 
 go into the Hbrary and have some tea by the fire?" 
 
 I followed her, taking in every detail of her exquisite 
 figure with admiring eyes. It was wonderful. Out- 
 wardly at least, she had not changed at all. The reaction 
 from my dismal fears was so great that I could have 
 shouted for joy. 
 
 34 
 
AN OLD PICTURE RESTORED 
 
 When we were seated in the great leather chairs before 
 the smouldering logs in the fireplace I remembered so 
 well, she crossed her hands and leaned back, so that her 
 face was tantalizingly half in shadow. 
 
 "And now . . . tell me all about yourself." 
 
 "You answer a question first." 
 
 "Well—?" 
 
 "You're not — er — married — or going to be?" 
 
 She laughed merrily. "Goodness, no. What a ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "Don't say 'Goodness, no'," I objected. "It's not such 
 a remote possibility, you know." 
 
 Her face was partially obscured, but not enough to 
 entirely conceal the slight hardening of her face at my 
 question. There was an uncomfortable pause. 
 
 "Well," she said finally, "with that interesting topic 
 disposed of — please go on and tell me about yourself." 
 
 "There's not a great deal to tell. You know, I suppose, 
 about my father's death?" 
 
 "Yes . , . I'm so sorry." Her tone was sym- 
 pathetic, but I laughed shortly. 
 
 "You don't need to be . . . that is, not if you're 
 sorry for me, I mean." 
 
 "Why Harlan . . . . " 
 
 "Sounds a bit shocking, doesn't it? Well, why dodge 
 facts? , My father wds a prominent factor in my origin, 
 and he kept me alive ever since. For which, if you'll 
 
 35 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 let me speak frankly, I'm about as grateful as I am for 
 the air I breathe. It all came from a source I knew noth- 
 ing whatever about." 
 
 "I think I understand," she said thoughtfully, even a 
 little sadly, it seemed to me. 
 
 "Do you?" I was grateful that she should seem to 
 sympathize so completely. "So few people would, you 
 know." 
 
 "So few people have ever had anjrthing that would 
 make them understand . . . fortunate, aren't they?" 
 
 "Yes, and so few people are honest, even with them- 
 selves. Many of them fed just as I do, but they won't 
 admit it. For one thing, they don't like to shock their 
 friends. I'm better off. I haven't any friends to shock. 
 I can say what I think." 
 
 "You're an iconoclast," she mttrmured. But I plunged 
 on, rejoicing in the opportunity to talk to an understand- 
 ing listener. 
 
 "My father was much more interested in his life than 
 he was in mine. He never was much concerned with my 
 childish interests, and he never made any effort to seem 
 interested. As I grew older my concerns grew more 
 remote, and in time we had absolutely nothing in common, 
 save our name. He was httle more to me than the source 
 of my income, and to be quite candid, his death affects 
 me only like the failure of a bank. That's a brutal thing 
 to say, isn't it?" 
 
 36 
 
AN OLD PICTURE RESTORED 
 
 "More pitiful than brutal, I think," she said gently. 
 "I know how you feel . . . I've been there myself. 
 But — " her tone changed imperceptibly — "If you felt 
 as you did, why did you come back to America — Chicago?" 
 
 For a moment I was silent. Then I laughed ironically. 
 
 "I came back because — ^because — ^this is to be my home 
 henceforth." 
 
 "Harlan — ^is it so?" She leaned forward, and I fancied 
 that I caught a faint gleam in her eyes. "You are not 
 going away from us any more — ^you are going to live here 
 — ^in Chicago?" 
 
 "I am going to live — ^here — ^in Chicago." 
 
 "Oh — ^I am so glad. But why, Harlan — ^why — ^what 
 makes you forsake your beloved Paris?" 
 
 Ilit a cigarette and flicked the match carefully into the 
 fireplace before I dared reply. "It was — er — a provision 
 of my father's will," I said rather hesitantly. 
 
 "That you should Hve in Chicago?" 
 
 "Not exactly — ^but that I should not return to Europe." 
 
 "Why— how odd." 
 
 "Yes — ^wasn't it?" I laughed rather bitterly, I suppose; 
 for she scrutinized me careftilly, without speaking. Then, 
 rather coldly — 
 
 "Harlan — ^you aren't telling me the whole truth, are 
 you?" What are you trying to conceal?" 
 
 I looked at her, frankly astonished. Her face was in 
 
 37 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 shadow, but her voice plainly bespoke her displeasure. 
 Then I laughed — ^not very pleasantly. 
 
 "You're quite right, of course, Dorothy. I did equivo- 
 cate. You shouldn't be forced to entertain a beggar 
 unawares. I spoke a moment ago of regarding my father 
 in the light of a bank. Well, when the bank dosed up 
 — ^we found it empty. I came to Chicago at the summons 
 of my solicitors, expecting, if the truth be told, to secure 
 my inheritance, and hasten back again. That is why I 
 came here. I shall stay for the very excellent reason that 
 I haven't the price of a ticket back. I did not pick Chi- 
 cago as a home — ^it picked me. I look upon myself as a 
 much-to-be-pitied football of Fate." 
 
 "Oh!" Astonishment, relief, disappointment, pity — 
 I read a thousand and one emotions into her little exclama- 
 tion . . . which was probably as purely reflex as a 
 sneeze. 
 
 "Now I face the immediate necessity of securing my 
 daily bread — ^without in the least knowing how to go 
 about the task. If you persist in demanding further 
 sordid revelation, I shall confess that the only money I 
 have in the world right now — is borrowed." 
 
 "You poor boy." 
 
 "That description must go unchallenged. Admitting 
 its truth, the next thing to do is to find some means of 
 appeasing the unreasonable demands of the stomach. 
 The soul may subsist on memories and anticipations, but 
 
 38 
 
AN OLD PICTURE RESTORED 
 
 the flesh has no imagination. Dorothy — I crave your 
 assistance." 
 
 "But haven't you any money?" she asked with an 
 incredvility that made me laugh in spite of myself. 
 
 "Dorothy," I said with mock seriousness. "I am not 
 'temporarily embarrassed.' Nor am I merely 'hard up,' 
 as plutocrats delight to describe themselves when the 
 market falls off a quarter of a point. Believe me, it is 
 not a faqon de parler when I say that my financial ther- 
 mometer is at mathematical zero. It is absolutely so. 
 In my pocket now I have a few dollars that old Devereaux 
 gave me. They should keep me for a few days. Then — 
 it's either beg more — or earn something — or steal. I 
 should, of course, prefer to earn it. But how?" 
 
 Dorothy pursed her lips meditatively. Several times 
 she essayed to speak, but thought better of it. Finally 
 she asked — "What can you do?" 
 
 I laughed. "The same query that my lawyers put. 
 And to it I must make the same embarrassing reply — 
 nothing." 
 
 "But you were always a clever boy. And I can't 
 believe that you have changed so completely as to be 
 stupid. You haven't spent all your time playing, have 
 you?" 
 
 "On the contrary. Advancing years have only found 
 me more studious. But of what value — or rather, of what 
 pecuniary value — ^is a student of philosophy in a great 
 
 39 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 commercial city like this? Is an intimate acquaintance 
 with the muses going to bring gold — or even fame — in 
 this grossly utilitarian atmosphere? Hardly." 
 
 "But we do appreciate painters here, my dear boy." 
 I sensed a tinge of resentment in her voice. 
 
 "Doubtless — ^but I can't paint." 
 
 "Then wherein would you be better off, financially, in 
 Paris than you are right here?" 
 
 "Ah," I cried, "that is where you put your finger on 
 the very crux of my misery. I am an unhappy wretch, 
 not because I have something that would be tmappreciated 
 here, but because I have nothing that would be appreciated 
 anywhere. I am not complaining at my present, but at 
 my past. You see, I was brought up to use money, not 
 to make it. As a dilettante I flatter myself that I am 
 second to none. I can love the arts 
 but ■produce? . . ." My gesture was eloquent in 
 its negation. 
 
 "But you can paint — a little, can't you?" 
 
 I laughed tolerantly. "One 'can', my dear girl, do any- 
 thing — ^but the word has different meanings. Like most 
 girls of your class, you play the piano. You 'can' play. 
 But you couldn't get on a platform and have people buy 
 tickets to hear you play. I 'can' paint — ^in an excellently 
 amateurish way. But I cannot conceive of anyone part- 
 ing with real money for the results of my handiwork. See 
 the difference?" 
 
 40 
 
AN OLD PICTURE RESTORED 
 
 She nodded, and was silent for a moment. But when 
 she spoke again, her voice was dogged, "But you can 
 paint — ^if only a little. And you can't do anything else. 
 That's trae, isn't it?" 
 
 "Painfully so." 
 
 "Well, half a talent is better than no talent at all. I 
 should think you would go ahead on the road you have 
 at least begun to tread." 
 
 "And starve, I suppose? Thank you, dear lady, I 
 prefer a more physically comfortable journey to the pot 
 o' gold. Can't you give me a better suggestion than that? 
 Tell me something about business . . . I'm blissfully 
 ignorant in that direction. Your father's' daughter ought 
 to know something about that." 
 
 "Very possibly." Her voice was cold, and for a 
 moment she sat staring into the embers. Then, suddenly, 
 she straightened up. 
 
 "I have an idea!" she cried almost enthusiastically. 
 
 "I am all attention," said I, but my irony was quite 
 lost on her. 
 
 "I expect him here any minute." 
 
 "How interesting — ^but who might 'he' be?" 
 
 "BiUy narrower." 
 
 "Identification incomplete — ^go on." 
 
 "Well, he's not much older than you, but he's already 
 a very successful business man, and ..." 
 
 "I see. He is to wave his magic wand over me, and 
 
 41 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 presto! I too will at once become a successful business 
 man. I am overjoyed." 
 
 "Please don't be flippant. It strikes me that you need 
 a lift—" 
 
 "Granted — O most wise!" 
 
 "And if anybody can give it, Billy can." 
 
 "Then I shall most certainly pay close attention to 
 Billy's lightest word." 
 
 There was a pause. "I opine," said Dorothy slowly, 
 ' 'that the time is not far distant when you are going to 
 lose some of this debonair flipness." 
 
 "I have no doubt of it," said I, most humbly. There 
 was another pause. 
 
 "Oh — I beg your pardon, Dorothy — I didn't ..." 
 
 I wheeled sharply at the crisp voice. A young man 
 stood somewhat confusedly in the doorway. He was 
 about my own age, but darker, smooth shaven, quicker 
 of movement, and with an indefinable air of aggressiveness 
 about him. I experienced a slight sense of repulsion, due 
 rather to what I felt instinctively were essential differ- 
 ences between us, than to any lack of attractiveness on 
 his part. On the contrary, I had to confess that the in- 
 truder presented a decidedly pleasing exterior. My cool 
 inspection was ended by Dorothy's voice. 
 
 "Hello, Billy — ^no harm done. This is Mr. Chandos — 
 a very old friend. Harlan — I don't think you know Mr. 
 Harrower." 
 
 42 
 
AN OLD PICTURE RESTORED 
 
 The other man took my hand with a firm grasp, and 
 showed his teeth in a smile that I found undeniably 
 charming. My momentary dislike vanished, and I told 
 myself that I had met a man whom I wotlld like, albeit 
 we might find ourselves in frequent opposition. 
 
 "Then you're not a Chicagoan, Mr. Chandos?" nar- 
 rower asked pleasantly. 
 
 "Oh, yes — ^but — consule Planco," I replied, a httle 
 wickedly. I felt amdous to test the other man before he 
 could test me. It was a petty way of exhibiting superior- 
 ity, of course, but I could not refrain from employing it. 
 
 narrower smiled even more pleasantly, but I realized, 
 with a faint sense of elation, that it was a smile of uncom- 
 prehension. Dorothy realized it too, for she translated 
 my remark. 
 
 "Mr. Chandos is a member of one of oiu- oldest families, 
 Billy. He played here as a boy, but he's been away ever since. 
 
 "I see," said Harrower, smiling. I respected him for 
 his obviously complete absence of resentment. 
 
 "Then you're not a Chicagoan, Mr. Harrower?" I asked. 
 
 "He likes to think he is," laughed Dorothy. 
 
 "I certainly do. And in a way, I am. Been here five 
 years. Came from New England originally — Glaston- 
 bury. Five years must seem little enough to you, Mr. 
 Chandos." 
 
 "Five years here — ^yes. But five years away . . . 
 is eternity!" 
 
 43 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 "Harlan!" Dorothy was indignant. ''You know you 
 detest the place." 
 
 I bowed. "I did . . . but that was before I knew 
 any Chicago people. I'm beginning to change my mind. 
 I am beginrung to regret the arid waste of years spent 
 away from it. I ... " 
 
 "What business are you in?" Harrower interrupted 
 suddenly. It was a question that I was doomed to hear 
 with disagreeable frequency. My answer was abrupt. 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Oh." I fancied that Harrower's expression betokened 
 some disfavor. There was a pause — embarrassing, tmtil 
 Dorothy came to the rescue. 
 
 "Mr. Chandos is a painter, BUly; that is, he has been 
 studying art. Now he wants to get into business. We 
 thought you coidd give some good advice about it. He 
 comes of good business stock, you know. His father was 
 John Chandos." 
 
 "John Chandos." Harrower's eyes opened wide. His 
 expression seemed divided between admiration and be- 
 wilderment. "John Chandos — you don't tell me." 
 
 I could follow the train of his thought. He was won- 
 dering in amazement why the only son of such a million- 
 aire as John Chandos should be looking for a business 
 opening. I would have felt very differently had I known 
 exactly what his thoughts were. 
 
 There was another curious pause. There was nothing 
 
 44 
 
AN OLD PICTURE RESTORED 
 
 for me to say, and Harrower seemed to have lost all desire 
 for speech. Again it was Dorothy who ended the silence. 
 
 "Well, Billy, haven't you any suggestion to offer?" 
 Harrower looked uncomfortable, and lit a cigarette. It 
 was only too obvious that if Jie had anything to say he 
 did not intend to say it. His behavior was strange, to 
 put it mildly, but as he very plainly had no intention of 
 explaining it, there was only one course of action open to 
 me. I uttered a few commonplaces about the weather, 
 and in a few moments rose. 
 
 "Au 'voir, Dorothy," I said with as much nonchalance 
 as I could muster. She was relieved at my departure, I 
 think. 
 
 My thoughts were painfully confused as I turned my 
 steps southward along the Drive. Dorothy herself 
 was a perplexing factor. She had not changed — and yet, 
 in some indefinable way she had. As I strode along I 
 realized how little my visit had taught me about her. Of 
 a sudden it came to me that I had done almost all the 
 talking, and I flushed at the recollection. Then it seemed 
 that she had not been unwilling to have me hurry away. 
 Harrower's name struck me with a vague unpleasantness. 
 
 Thus I pondered. But although my eyes were for the 
 most part turned inward, I was not entirely oblivious to 
 the passing show. And so, when I was again on the bridge 
 that had disgusted me so completely in the afternoon, I 
 stopped in wonderment. 
 
 45 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 It was the same tottering relic of bygone days. The 
 same crash and rumble filled my ears. The same host 
 of nauseous gases filled my nostrils. I shuddered at the 
 ugliness of it aU, and my soul sickened within me, just as 
 it had before. And then . . . my glance rested on 
 the clouds, the smoke, the steam from the ships. I forgot 
 my first aversion in a burst of enthusiasm for the loveli- 
 ness I had missed. The setting sun had spilled all the 
 colors from heaven's palette, and the gaunt masts, the 
 dingy walls, had been transformed as if by magic into 
 minarets of silver and battlements of gold. Then, over 
 it all, the slowly purpling mantle of night fell. It was a 
 scene set on high to bear testament that the God of Beauty 
 was still in his heaven. 
 
 Kindly darkness obliterated all that I had thought 
 crude and harsh and ugly, and as the twinkling lights 
 sparkled hither and yon, bringing on the second picture, 
 my fingers itched for a brush. Here was a task for a 
 Whistler, surely. The ponderous mass of the warehouses, 
 faintly limned against an almost starless sky, presented 
 a backgroimd I had not even suspected was there. A 
 slight mist began to rise from the River, and through it 
 the red and green lights of the shipping gleamed very 
 softly. Even the yellow garishness of the illuminated 
 advertisements was subdued in the haze, throwing a 
 mysterious, exquisitely evanescent reflection on the slow- 
 moving water. Why, I asked myself in a flood of compre- 
 
 46 
 
AN OLD PICTURE RESTORED 
 
 hension, did painters busy themselves with mouldy ruins, 
 when they had such material at their hands? Why did 
 they waste time in an effort to catch the spirit of a day 
 that was gone, when the significance of the Present offered 
 such opportunities? And as I studied the scene, the 
 answer came. I realized that no ordinary man could put 
 such things on canvas . . . that more than mere 
 craftsmanship was necessary to catch it. No man could 
 ever paint Chicago — ^America — TODAY — until he knew 
 it. And such imderstanding was not to be gained in the 
 schools . . . the genius of the Future was not to 
 come from Julian's. He must spring from the same loins 
 as had the hideous bridge, the jangling street cars, the 
 clattering trucks, the cobblestones, the warehouses . . 
 he must be not merely the transcriber of the Song of Life 
 — but the Singer. 
 
 47 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 BONDAGE 
 
 IT was with mingled feelings of anticipation and dismay 
 that I rose next morning and stood staring out over 
 the Lake. The sun gleamed mistily, painting every- 
 thing in white and gold that yesterday had been all din- 
 giness; and the breeze that blew in my open window was 
 fresh and cool, filling me with something approaching 
 exhilaration. 
 
 It was almost ten o'clock when I sauntered down for 
 breakfast, and I observed the waiters eyeing me with 
 the same lack of favor that I had noted on the previous 
 afternoon. I realized, as I looked about, that I was almost 
 alone in the great haU, but any self-consciousness I might 
 have felt at that was lost in my awe at the splendor of the 
 room. 
 
 It reminded me of some graceful Gothic minster, with 
 its delicately towering arches, its gray stone walls, and its 
 stained glass windows, through which the sunlight filtered 
 softly. Here was old world architecture at its best, in 
 the very vitals of the new world at its newest. At first 
 I gloried in the spaciousness, the grandeur, the satisf jring 
 proportions of this perfect replica. Then an odd feeling 
 of resentment crept over me. After all, why did it have 
 
 48 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 to be a replica? Why did these latter-day builders have 
 to go to their forbears for inspiration in things of beauty 
 when they went to no one for things of use? I had to 
 shrug my shoulders with a helpless sigh — only another 
 of the paradoxes that go to make America: on the one 
 hand, the most original nation in the world; on the other, 
 the most slavish of imitators. And then a Voice gxjke 
 within me. And what it said sounded something like — 
 "Rome was not built in a day!" 
 
 Breakfast over, I went down to the lounge to think 
 over the more pressing realities of life. I had passed the 
 day when the metaphysics of art constituted my most 
 pressing concern. I had to live. I had to devise ways 
 and means. It was a novel sensation. 
 
 I knew, rather vaguely, that when men were in need of 
 help, they advertised. So I secured a copy of the Tribune, 
 and turned to the classified section. I began at the begin- 
 ning of "WANTED— MALE HELP." I cherished no 
 illusions. I, the son of a millionaire, with several univer- 
 sity degrees, was "help." It was humiliating, but it was 
 true. 
 
 I studied the "Stores and Offices" column first, but 
 there was nothing there. There was too much technical 
 training required. For all my elaborate education, I did 
 not even know what a bill-extender was, to say nothing 
 of applying for his job. The notion of book-keeping terri- 
 fied me. It meant figures and a high stool. I hurried 
 
 49 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 on to the next classification, "Trades and Professions." 
 But that was even more specialized. The only trade 
 under which I could qualify was that of chauffeur, and I 
 aimed at something higher. I told myself that it was 
 because I was ambitious, but of course, that was not the 
 reason. "Salesmen," I passed over with scarcely more 
 than a glance. I had never sold anything in my life, and 
 it never occurred to me to begin. Then, imder "Mis- 
 cellaneous," I stopped — 
 
 WANTED— Artist, black and white. 
 Speed and ability to produce essential. 
 Bring samples. 780148 S. Dearborn. 
 
 I read the rest of the miscellaneous offerings, but noth- 
 ing else appealed to me.. I returned to the first adver- 
 tisement. I read it over several times. I was an artist. 
 True, I had done nothing in black and white since my 
 school days, but surely it would not be difficult to renew 
 my acquaintance with that medium. As to speed, I had 
 never considered that a virtue, but if speed was the desidera- 
 tum I was ready to change my views. As to "ability to 
 produce," I had not the remotest idea of what that meant' 
 so I dismissed it from my mind. 
 
 I pondered over the matter. I had to get work, and 
 here was work offered to me. Curiously enough, it never 
 occurred to me that there might be other applicants for 
 the same position. It seemed to be offered directly to 
 me. I actually had a feeling that the advertiser would 
 
 SO 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 be keenly disappointed if I failed to appear. The upshot 
 of my consideration was that I decided to accept the 
 proffered opportunity. 
 
 I experienced an uncomfortable hollowness of the 
 stomach as I entered the dingy building specified in the 
 advertisement. At first disdainfully, and then, as I 
 realized my position, hopelessly, I surveyed the iU-kept 
 lobby, and took in every detail of its ugliness. 
 
 My destination seemed to be on the cheapest floor, in 
 the cheapest location, of an exceedingly cheap building — 
 self-evident facts that brought home the more strongly 
 the ludicrous incongruity of the elaborate lettering, in 
 three colors, on the imposing double doors that admitted 
 to Nvmiber 780. The sign read — "The Keppy Company, 
 Advertising." 
 
 I addressed myself to a statuesque blonde at the infor- 
 mation desk, and told her the purpose of my visit. With- 
 out looking up, she told me to see a Mr. Brega, and when, 
 after a polite pause, I asked to see Mr. Brega, she told 
 me that he was busy. So I seated myself on a large couch, 
 covered with imitation leather, to wait for him. That 
 gave me an opportunity to study what I felt, with a sinking 
 of the heart, were to be my surroundings. 
 
 As if to compensate for the unmitigated dinginess of the 
 building, an extreme effort had been made to have the 
 office itself strike the casual visitor with its elegance and 
 importance. But the piupose was no less apparent than 
 
 SI 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 the niggardliness of the means taken to its attainment. 
 The space had been divided oflE into tiny rooms, separated 
 from one another by flimsy partitions covered with burlap. 
 Each door bore two, and in some cases, three names, giving 
 one an idea, at once, of the size of the organization. But 
 as the door to one of these wretched compartments opened, 
 I caught a glimpse of the crowded interior, blue with 
 tobacco smoke, and I shuddered. 
 
 People were constantly passing and boys scurrying 
 noisily about, while the intermittent jangle of telephone 
 bells punctuated the constant chatter of humanity. I 
 marvelled how any work requiring thought could be 
 accomplished in such a din, and I expressed my amaze- 
 ment to a shabby old man who had come in after me. His 
 reply was succinct, but illuminating — 
 
 "They don't do any work requiring thought." 
 
 But any further conversation with my acid companion 
 was ended by the approach of a thin, round-shouldered 
 man, with sparse, neutral tinted hair, and thick round 
 spectacles, emphasizing an equally round, expressionless 
 face. 
 
 "This is Mr. . . . ?" he said interrogatively. 
 
 "Chandos." I held out my hand, and the other ac- 
 cepted it limply. "How do you do," he drawled color- 
 lessly, "I am Mr. Brega. Come in here, will you?" he 
 added, leading the way to one of the offices, slightly larger 
 than the others. As he held open the door for me to 
 
 52 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 enter, I noted that there was only one name on the glass 
 — Mr. Keppy. 
 
 The single occupant of the room was telephoning as we 
 came in, apparently without the satisfaction that he had 
 anticipated; for his language was far from delicate. I 
 stood waiting, partly from courtesy, and partly because 
 there was only one other chair. Presently the man at the 
 telephone — a stocky individual with a round, bullet-shaped 
 head — swimg round, a frown on his face. 
 
 "Well?" he gritted through his teeth. 
 
 "Excuse me, Mr. Keppy," said Brega timidly. "But 
 this is Mr. Chandos — an artist, you know." 
 
 The unpleasant expression faded from Mr. Keppy"3 
 face, and he smiled. I thought the smile was scarcely 
 less desirable than the frown. It seemed "out of char- 
 acter," so to speak. Keppy's face did not seem made for 
 smiles — ^the jaw was too square, the lips too close, the 
 eyes too cold. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said affably. "Sit down, Mr. Chandos, 
 sit down." 
 
 I hesitated, reluctant to take the single chair, but a 
 gentle pressure from Brega forced me down. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Chandos," began Keppy, "I understand 
 that you would like to make a connection with this organ- 
 ization?" 
 
 I smiled to myself as I thought of the amazement I 
 could evoke by telling the actual truth. But my face 
 
 S3 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 was grave and properly humble, as I answered in the 
 aflBrmative. "I'm told that there's no organization in 
 Chicago like it," I added daringly. The look of smug 
 complacency that spread over Keppy's face was delightful. 
 
 "Oh, I'd hardly go so far as to say that," he murmured 
 deprecatingly. "Still, we have got a good one — ^haven't 
 we, Brega?" 
 
 That worthy, thus appealed to, nodded his head like 
 an automaton, and Keppy proceeded, emphasizing his 
 words with sharp raps of his pencil on the desk. "I cer- 
 tainly have worked hard to build up this business. . . . 
 I've worked hard because my heart's been in it. No man 
 can work hard without his heart's in it — can he, Mr. 
 Chandos?" 
 
 I opened my mouth to acquiesce dutifuUy, but Keppy 
 went on without waiting. "Those are the kind of men 
 I want to get in here." He leaned forward and slapped 
 his thigh almost belligerently. "Chaps with their heart 
 in the work. Men I can rely on — men who — who — share 
 the business with me, understand? And when I get a 
 man like that I treat him right, I do. No man ever 
 worked for me, Chandos, and had cause to complain that 
 he wasn't given a square deal. Now has he, Brega?" 
 
 The thin man, again appealed to, again nodded in the 
 same expressionless fashion. I smiled pleasantly, but 
 I wondered, with a mental yawn, how long these pre- 
 liminaries were to last. Keppy must have detected my 
 
 54 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 thought; for in his next words he came to the matter in 
 hand. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Chandos — what's your experience?" he 
 asked abruptly. 
 
 "Yale Art School, Julian's . , . and I've been in 
 Paris for several years." It seemed to me that Brega's 
 face exhibited the first sign of interest I had seen upon it. 
 Keppy nodded his head sagely. 
 
 "That's fine," he said. "You've had a splendid edu- 
 cation — splendid. I wish I'd had as good. But of course 
 you understand, Mr. Chandos, that — er . . . well, 
 what business experience have you had . . . that is, 
 what experience have you had in real practical work — 
 commercial work, you know?" 
 
 It was on the tip of my tongue to lie; but I had not been 
 "in business" long enough to have acquired much facility 
 in that art, so I answered shortly — "None." 
 
 Keppy and Brega exchanged glances at this, and the 
 former looked out of the window for a moment. 
 
 "Um — you understand, of course, Mr, Chandos, that 
 that puts a rather difiEerent face upon the matter. What 
 we need here, and what we're ready to pay for — and pay 
 well — ^is a business artist. I haven't a doubt but what 
 you can draw well enough — but we've got to have a man 
 that can draw commercially. Y'tmderstand?" 
 
 Oddly, his Philistine doubts concerning my ability — for 
 all their justice — stiuig my pride. It was my inclination 
 
 55 
 
THE JOY OF THE WOREING 
 
 to rise, gather that pride about me, and sweep cxmtemptu- 
 ously from Keppy's presence. But reflecticm fcdlowed dose 
 upon inclination. Remembrance of Devereaux's loan, 
 with my mounting score at the Univeraty Club, smote 
 me, and my tone was humble enou^ when I spoke again. 
 
 "If youH give me the material I'd be ^d to show jrou 
 what I can do." It was bitteriy humiliating, but I had 
 no choice. The bonds of drcnmstance were ^ust about 
 me. 
 
 Keppy drew a piece of paper from his desk and handed 
 me a pen- "All right," he said, "Tliaf s fair enough. 
 Make me a sketch c£ a — wdl — ^a guy looking at a can of 
 tobacco. Bring out the can . . . put a grin on the 
 man's face. Your picture's got to help sell the stuS, you 
 know. And remember — few lines — fdenty of black. 
 Try it." 
 
 Obediently I did as I was told. For some time there 
 was sQence, broken only by the occasional scratdb of the 
 pen in my embarrassed fingers. At length I leaned back 
 and pushed the sketch toward Keppy. 
 
 He scrutinized it for a few moments, biting his lip. 
 "TJm — yes," he said finally. His tone was ncm-CDm- 
 mittaL "What do you think of this, Brega?" 
 
 Br^a's moon-like countenance dianged not a particle 
 at his listless — "Not so bad." Then he stifled a yawn, and 
 shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looked out 
 of the window. For a while there was another alence. 
 
 S6 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 Then Keppy brought the tips of his rather stubby fingers 
 together. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Chandos, I'll tell you. Your work is good. 
 Understand me, I think it's first rate. But it ain't quite 
 up to our standard, y'understand? I don't mean it isn't 
 all right — ^it simply ain't just quite all right accordin' to 
 our particular requirements. But you've got talent — 
 there isn't any doubt about that. And I like to assist 
 yotmg men. I like to give 'em a helping hand. So I tell 
 you what I'll do. I'll take you on here and let you see 
 what you can do. If you can develop, and learn from 
 Brega here — ^he's one of the best artists in the business, 
 let me tell you — ain't you, Brega?" He poked the artist 
 playfully, but the latter merely shifted tmsmilingly back 
 to his original foot. "As I say, young fellow," Keppy 
 went on, "if you can deliver the goods — ^why, there'E be 
 a place for you here, all right. And, by G€orge, you 
 couldn't find a better one in the city — ^if I do say it myself. 
 How'd you like to try it?" 
 
 I forced myself not to betray by any expression the 
 emotions that surged in my soul. "I'd like to very much," 
 I said resolutely. 
 
 "Good — ^you'll never regret it. Now as to salary. Of 
 course as a beginner, you can't hope for much. It's like 
 when you was in school — you had to pay tuition, didn't 
 you? Well, this is a good deal the same. You're sort 
 of going to study art with Mr. Brega. I can't afford to 
 
 57 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 give you much, but I'm no tight-wad, and I'll give you a 
 lot more than most men woiild. That's because I believe 
 in you. Of course, now, you might stay here until you 
 thought you'd learned all you could — ^and then skip. And 
 then I'd be out all I'd paid you. But if I'm any judge of 
 character, you ain't that sort of a fellow. Well, Mr. 
 Chandos, as I say, I'll give you really more than you're 
 worth ... I'll give you seventy-five dollars a 
 month." 
 
 Somehow, in all my consideration of the necessity for 
 earning money, I had never given much thought to the 
 amoimt. I merely realized that I must work at some 
 gainful pvusuit, and that the fruits thereof must certainly 
 equal — ^possibly surpass — ^the allowance I had received 
 from my father. I had never looked upon my earning 
 power in the light of what I could get, but of what I must 
 have. Now, for the first time, my future was expressed 
 in definite figures. I sat stunned. Seventy-five dollars 
 a month! How often had I spent that on a single suit of 
 clothes — on a single evening's pleasure. It was utterly 
 preposterous! The man must be joking with me. I 
 suppose my consternation showed on my face, for Keppy 
 hastened to add — 
 
 "It isn't much, Mr. Chandos, of course. But then, as 
 you'll have to adnait yourself, you ain't worth much. I 
 don't offer it because I expect to get returns out of it right 
 off. I look on it as an investment. Some day I expect 
 
 58 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 you to pay big — and then you won't have any cause to 
 kick about salary. I never hesitate to pay a man what 
 he's worth. That ain't the way I do business." 
 
 For a moment I sat in silence, resolutely forcing down 
 regrets and repugnances that my reason told me I could 
 no longer afford. Itwas not for paupers to pick and choose. 
 My necessities were too immediate for me to haggle over 
 wages. And besides, after all, I had to admit it — I wasn't 
 worth much. When I finally spoke, therefore, my voice 
 and manner were quite resigned. "The salary is quite 
 satisfactory, Mr. Keppy." 
 
 Keppy was surprised, and almost showed it. He was 
 unused to such prompt acquiescence in his offers, and for , 
 a moment he was unable to speak. Then he caught him- 
 self. 
 
 "Fine. I know you'll never regret it. This organiza- 
 tion is growing every day, and you'll find yourself in a 
 mighty fine berth before you know it. The salary '11 
 match it, too. Now — ^when can you start?" 
 
 "Immediately," I said, without enthusiasm. 
 
 "That's the stuff. How about Monday morning?" 
 
 "Perfectly satisfactory." 
 
 "All right then, Mr. Brega. Mr. Chahdos will report 
 to you on Monday morning." 
 
 I rose, trying not to see Keppy's extended hand. But 
 my new employer's cordiality was too obvious to be over- 
 looked. I found my hand smothered in a warm soft grasp 
 
 59 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 that almost made me shudder. Brega merely nodded, 
 and disappeared toward his own compartment. Keppy 
 followed me to the outer door, patting me on the shoulder, 
 and laughing jovially. 
 
 "Oh — by the way," he said, his voice sinking to a confi- 
 dential undertone, but still with a smile on his lips. "We 
 — er — like to have the men down at eight, Mr. Chandos. 
 Punctuality is one of my little hobbies. I'm not a nagger, 
 and I never keep after a man who won't fall in with my 
 wishes — ^but — oh, well — I know you ain't a shirker. One 
 wouldn't have to look at you twice to see that. Well — 
 so-long . . . until Monday ... at eight, re- 
 member, S'long — see ye then." 
 
 It was all I could do to keep from racing down the hall 
 to the elevator. And once on the street I drew a long 
 breath of relief. For the first time the shackles of neces- 
 sity really hurt. 
 
 It was after one o'clock, so I made for the dub. I had 
 been seated at luncheon only a few minutes when I felt 
 a hand on my shoulder, and looked up to confront a vaguely 
 familiar figure. 
 
 "Don't remember me, do you?" said the other smiling. 
 "My name's Harrower ... we met at Dorothy 
 Gresham's yesterday." 
 
 "Oh yes — of course," I cried. The healthy cheerfulness 
 on Harrower's face was an efficient antidote for my un- 
 pleasant introspection, and I shook his hand warmly. 
 
 60 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 "K you don't mind, I think I'll sit down here with you," 
 he said. ' 
 
 "I'd be de%hted," I answered sincerely. I really was. 
 The prospect of a chat with one so obviously contented 
 with life cheered me greatly. But I was a little surprised 
 at his cordial interest in me. I suppose Dorothy had 
 quieted his suspicions concerning me. At any rate he 
 behaved very differently than at our first encotmter. 
 
 We chatted about various topics of general interest — 
 or rather he did; I knew nothing of politics or baseball or 
 theatres, and they seemed to be his principal interests. 
 Finally he turned to the subject of business, discussing a 
 bit of economic legislation that appeared to be of close 
 concern. I listened silently, partly because he interested 
 me, and partly because there was nothing for me to say. 
 But a pause gave me an opportunity to interrupt — 
 
 "Harrower," I said, "Pardon a strangely direct ques- 
 tion, but are — do you — ^that is, are you — ex— fond of your 
 business? Do you actually enjoy it? Does it really 
 interest you — ^in itself? Do you work because you like to 
 — ^because you really want to ... or because you 
 have to?" 
 
 Harrower was frankly amazed. His mouth hung open, 
 and he stared at me for a moment in bewildered silence. 
 "Do I work because I want to — or because I have to 
 . . . I'm afraid I don't quite catch your drift." 
 
 "I mean simply this — do you work — ^is your occupation 
 
 6i 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 — a matter of necessity or inclination? If you could stop 
 tomorrow, would you do it?" 
 
 "Oh — I see." Harrower's face cleared a little, and he 
 laughed aloud. "Why my dear man, of course I work 
 because I have to. It's a very simple case of bread and 
 butter . . . but I like it, too. I really do. It's a 
 lot of fun." 
 
 "Would you quit if you could?" 
 
 He was thoughtful a moment. "I doubt it. I wouldn't 
 know what to do with myself. But here — ^why all this 
 interest?" 
 
 "I'm wondering if I'll ever feel like you do. I haven't 
 begun to work — and I loathe it!" I said bitterly. 
 
 "That's the point. Wait till you've been at it a bit. 
 Have you gotten hold of anything?" 
 
 "I am now an artist in the employ of the Keppy Com- 
 pany — ^Advertising," I said with mock importance. "My 
 wage is an insult — ^poor worm, I'm ground under the iron 
 heel of capital." 
 
 "Doesn't the job appeal to you?" 
 
 "No job appeals to me." 
 
 narrower looked puzzled, but he was too polite to say 
 anything. I felt ashamed for equivocating. 
 
 "narrower," I said humbly. "Please forgive me. I'm 
 a puzzle to you — just as you are to me. You can't under- 
 stand why I should be so revolted at the idea of earning 
 my daily bread; and I can't see why you should be so con- 
 
 62 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 foundedly cheerful about it. It makes me feel queer. 
 Why, I . . . " 
 
 "Hold on," said Harrower. "You mean to say that the 
 idea of work is objectionable to you?" 
 
 "Hideously!" 
 
 "Btrai steer!" he said, leaning back and lighting a cigar. 
 "If you'll pardon me, you're talking through your hat. 
 You don't object to work — ^you just object to the kind 
 of work that happens to be set before you. Why man, 
 don't you call the painting you've been doing, work? I'll 
 bet it is, and hard work, too. It strikes me that you're 
 making too big a distinction between work and play. 
 Why, great Scot, you're no diflEerent from the rest of us. 
 You've got to work. You'd go nutty if you didn't." 
 
 "Twaddle!" I said succinctly. "I've never worked — 
 and I'm not crazy — ^that is, I don't think I am." 
 
 "I repeat." Harrower was tolerant. "I repeat, my 
 dear friend, that you don't know how to distinguish be- 
 tween work and play." 
 
 Looking back on that conversation in the light of sub- 
 sequent events, I am by no means sure that Harrower 
 knew what he was talking about. In fact I am reasonably 
 sure that he did not. But the fact remains that he ex- 
 pressed a most tremendous truth — a truth that required 
 a good many years for me to learn, and a truth so profound, 
 so amazingly useful, that I am writing this book to help 
 others to find it out for themselves. 
 
 63 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 But at the moment I was irritated at Harrower's flat 
 contradiction of my firm convictions, and his generally 
 patronizing attitude toward me. 
 
 "Don't bother about liking work or not," he went on. 
 "Just do the best you've got in you, and before you know 
 it you'll have a real job. And then there won't be any 
 doubt about liking work. You can't help but like it. AH 
 the hoUer we hear about industrial slavery comes from the 
 chaps who can't make good. You don't find the men 
 in big places yelling for more vacations. What they want 
 is more time. Take my advice and buckle down to the 
 job in hand. You won't be kicking about work when 
 you're getting ten thousand a year." 
 
 And in those words Harrower unconsciously taught me 
 another lesson. It was the spirit of competition that kept 
 men bound to the wheel. Then and there I became filled 
 with a vast desire to succeed in business, for the solitary 
 reason that I might give this complacent young man ad- 
 vice. That was trtdy an amazing conversation, viewed 
 in retrospect. 
 
 When we separated, I went down to the Reading Room. 
 I sat down and pondered over my conversation with nar- 
 rower. And presently, by an easy process of association, 
 I came to a reflection of Dorothy Gresham . . . and 
 there I stopped. I whistled softly. 
 
 Abruptly I threw myself back in the chair, biting my 
 lip nervously, overwhelmed by this new idea that had 
 
 64 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 smitten me so tmawares. For a long time I sat twisting 
 it, ridiculing it, inspecting it from every side. Then I 
 stood up, and laughed mirthlessly. "Nonsense!" I cried. 
 "It never comes that way. Why — ^it's preposterous." 
 
 But the thoughts that teemed in my mind, old memories 
 suddenly awakened — and the more lively for their long 
 sleep — ^and new desires, galvanized by a sudden touch into 
 terrible activity, would not down. Impatiently I tried 
 to quiet them by reading a newspaper. But they would 
 not go. I felt myself in the grip of an insane obsession. 
 Blindly I cursed Harrower as the agent of my misery. 
 
 Finally, I threw the paper down, and went to the east 
 windows to stare wretchedly at the sky and the Lake. 
 Then presently, I went arotmd to the other side of the 
 room, to turn my gaze on the grimly forbidding mass of 
 smoke-obscured buildings. 
 
 "This is where I must keep my eyes," I muttered sav- 
 agely. "I'm through with Romance . . . it's Real- 
 ity from now on. The primrose path is not for me!" 
 
 Finally, in abyssmal disgust at my own weakness, I 
 went down to the swimming pool, hoping that with physi- 
 cal weariness I might shake off the shadow that had 
 fastened itself to my soul. 
 
 6S 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 I GIVE rP CIGARETTES 
 
 IT was half past six when I arose on Monday morning, 
 and as I dressed I reflected dismally that all previous 
 eflEorts at early rising had been due to duck shooting, 
 or riding to hounds, or painting the dawn, or some simi- 
 larly inutile pursuit. Now — ^how different! 
 
 I shivered a little as I peered out of the window. It 
 was a sunless, mid-November day, cold and bleak, with a 
 touch of rain in the atmosphere. Even the buildings, 
 slightly obscured by the clinging early-morning mist from 
 the Lake, seemed particularly grim and austere. The 
 desolation of my surroundings was mirrored in my spirit. 
 
 The day had brightened considerably when I reached 
 the Keppy offices, and the snap in the air had set my blood 
 to moving more healthily. But the street life, the vague 
 animation of a city's early hours, which had always at- 
 tracted me when I was a mere detached spectator, now, 
 when I myself was a spoke in the wheel, filled me with an 
 inescapable depression. 
 
 It had often pleased me, in Paris, to rise betimes and 
 betake myself to one of the bridges near the Cit6, there 
 to watch the toilers swarming to their daily bread. The 
 idea of necessitous toil had had its interest for me, but it 
 
 66 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETTES 
 
 was an impersonal interest, and I enjoyed my rolls and 
 chocolate later more thoroughly because it was so imper- 
 sonal. The hurrjdng throngs had never meant a collec- 
 tion of individuals, each bent upon business of the utmost 
 seriousness to himself; but a succession of puppets, the 
 whole thing an animated picture, a part of the interesting 
 and valuable chiaroscuro of the River. 
 
 But now, I reflected sardonically, as I forced myself 
 into the elevator, the unmoved spectator had become a 
 very grimly integral part of the "play." Only it was not 
 a play, after all, but the most serious thing that Hfe could 
 offer. 
 
 I studied the faces of those packed into the elevator 
 with me, and I realized, almost instinctively, that I was 
 in the midst of the democracy of Toil. For the world of 
 the toilers has its classes and its subdivisions, just as the 
 world at large has them, in which a man's status is fixed 
 by his salary, and indicated by his hours. Before eight 
 o'clock comes the "submerged tenth" of labor — ^the 
 workers for other workers, the elevator men, the sweepers, 
 the scullions, the firemen, the postmen, and — ^humblest 
 of all — ^the children, the poor little camp followers of the 
 industrial army. Then, at' eight, comes the vast flood 
 of the bourgeoisie — ^the clerks, the stenographers, the strug- 
 gling horde of the young, the in^cient — or the merely 
 mediocre. At half past eight the cars are not so crowded ; 
 for it is then that aristocracy travels — department heads, 
 
 67 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 superior men generally, men who receive salaries instead 
 of wages, who have positions instead of jobs, and who 
 punch no time clocks. Then, at nine o'clock, comes 
 royalty — ^the presidents, the directors — ^the Names. And 
 with their arrival the Day has really begun. 
 
 The gradations of toil, and the gradations of the toilers 
 are replete with paradox. The one who must begin the 
 earliest is forced to live the farthest away — ^the six o'clock 
 charwoman must rise near four; while her ten o'clock 
 employer spends ten minutes In his motor. And the 
 under-nourished office-boy, almost helpless in his fight 
 with the world, as yet but half armored against it, must 
 work ten hours a day, while the man at the president's 
 desk . . . well, that is simply one of the paradoxes 
 that cannot be argued; for it can be dismissed so readily 
 by merely discussing the meaning of the word "work." 
 Do long hours of labor with the hands, in a struggle to 
 secure the essentials of bread and shelter, balance against 
 short hem's of "responsibility" in a struggle to change the 
 orchestra circle into a box? Who shall answer? Is our 
 happiness to be measured by what we have — or by what we 
 want? That is a question that has never been answered 
 by any man for any man but himself. And it never will 
 be answered until every man has what every other man 
 has . . . when, it is ' reasonable to suppose, there 
 will be no one to ask the question. 
 
 Almost with disgust, I studied the faces of those about 
 
 68 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETTES 
 
 me. They were unlovely, for the most part, and their 
 obvious sleepiness increased their ugliness. It came upon 
 me with a shudder that this was the product of the mill 
 I was on the way to enter. The muddied complexions, 
 bom of indoors and poor food, the facial lines all sagging, 
 the hollow cheeks, the shabby clothing ... I had 
 to hold myself with a strong effort not to turn and run 
 away. 
 
 It was several minutes before eight when I reached the 
 office, and the door was locked. But I welcomed the 
 respite, because it gave me a few moments in which to 
 coordinate the ideas that were confusing me with their 
 rapid growth. I went back and sat down on the stairs 
 to think. 
 
 It sounds odd, but the ugliness in the elevator made me 
 think of Murillo. Art, in all the vast and little-understood 
 meaning of the word, had been the chief interest of my 
 life; and in some form or other it had been the key to un- 
 lock the doors of many of my problems. It was not 
 strange, therefore, that I should look to art to explain what 
 now loomed before me as the greatest problem of my life. 
 
 In my younger days, on my first trip to Spain, I had 
 visited the Academy of San Fernando, at Madrid. There 
 I saw Murillo's el Tifioso. I had realized the technical 
 skiU of the painter, of course, but his purpose had been 
 incomprehensible. Why had that great master chosen 
 to depict such horrors, when there was so much beauty 
 
 69 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 calling for his brush? I remembered now, as I sat on the 
 stairs, the illuminating remark of an older friend who 
 had been with me — 
 
 "You must not judge a work of art by its subject," he 
 had said, "nor by its execution. You must judge it by 
 its purpose." Until you grasp the idea that inspired it, 
 you cannot truly appreciate it." 
 
 That explanation had been true — and in consequence, 
 many great works of art — ^not alone paintings — ^had 
 remained inexpUcable to me. My education had made 
 me a connoisseur of technique, and my temperament made 
 me naturally sympathetic for the beautiful. But the ugly 
 in art had been quite beyond me — ^and I was honest 
 enough to admit it. 
 
 I did not fully realize it as yet, of course, but there were 
 flashes now and then of an awakening imderstanding, 
 presaging a deeper and wider knowledge — of art, yes, 
 but of life, too; for I was to learn that to know art is to 
 know life — and vice versa. I was beginning to grasp the 
 great truth that art — in whatever form — is the great 
 interpreter of life. It began to dawn upon me, with painful 
 certainty, that the reason I had never understood the 
 presence of the ugly in art was because I had never re- 
 motely comprehended the ugly in life. I almost laughed 
 aloud at the queer course my thoughts were taking. By 
 losing my worldly goods I bade fair to enter the kingdom 
 of the. cognoscenti, and to win my artistic salvation. By 
 
 70 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETTES 
 
 becoming a sordid money-grubber in a very desolation of 
 ugliness, I was to leam what all the galleries, all the 
 ateliers, all the books of Europe had not even suggested. 
 By becoming a beggar I was to leam why MuriUo had 
 painted one. 
 
 But my philosophic introspection was efEectually ter- 
 minated by the entrance of reality in the form of a diminu- 
 tive voice in trousers, connected by a cord to a sack of 
 mail that seemed to loom up and overwhelm the small 
 figiire beside it. 
 
 "You the new artist?" the voice asked, and I felt oddly 
 embarrassed at this first official cognizance of my status. 
 I smiled ingratiatingly as I replied to the query, but the 
 urchin still surveyed me with a critical eye. 
 
 "Been here long?" he asked. And when I answered 
 him, he spat knowingly on the floor. "You don't need 
 to git here at eight on Mondays. Th' boss never gits 
 here on time. And Miss Stromberg — she takes th' time 
 — she don't git here neither." 
 
 "Everybody arrives at eight — ^usually — don't they?" 
 I asked humbly. But the lad surveyed me dubiously, as 
 if striving to estimate what manner of man his new co- 
 worker might be. Finally, with a slight gesture of weari- 
 ness, he picked up the sack. 
 
 "They gits here w'en Strombie does — an' that's about 
 eight. That is, they all do 'cept Markham — ^he's a copy- 
 writer, an' he oughter be, but he's sweet on Strombie, an' 
 
 71 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 she puts Tiim down on time no matter w'en he blows in." 
 
 I offered to help my new friend with the sack, but my 
 assistance was curtly disdained. "I suppose that's mail 
 you have in there?" I asked, following him into the office. 
 The lad shook his burden viciously. 
 
 "Ye'uh. It's light this momin'." 
 
 I grinned at what I thought was an ironic jest. "Do 
 you mean to tell me that you carry that all the way from 
 the Post Office — ^yourself — alone?" I asked incredulously. 
 
 "Sure I do." The bojr's disgust at my stupidity showed 
 on his sharp face. "Who d'ye spose 'd fetch it? It's 
 little Morris every momin' at 7:30 . . . Say, ain't 
 them hours hell? Wouldn't you strike fer a raise if you 
 was me?" 
 
 I felt a lump rise in my throat as I surveyed the lad's 
 puny frame, which contrasted so pathetically with the 
 independence of his words. 
 
 "I certainly would," I said. "How much do you get 
 now — and how old are you?" 
 
 'Tour bucks, and " his eyes narrowed wisely 
 
 "I'm just sixteen." 
 
 The change in the boy's expression was pitiful for what 
 it indicated — a successful effort to evade and nullify the 
 very laws designed for his own protection. As I watched 
 him I fell to wondering who suffers most in the end — ^the 
 child himself — or the community — or posterity? I would 
 
 72 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETTES 
 
 have questioned Morris further, but the door opened 
 behind us, and a trio of girls entered noisily. 
 
 I had seen their like on the streets a million times the 
 world over, sallow sldimed, dressed in tawdry modishness; 
 but here, in this intimate environment, they took on a 
 new interest for me. I studied every detail of their cos- 
 tumes and manner so diligently that I quite failed to 
 observe their scrutiny of me. But presently they dis- 
 appeared to their various posts, Morris fell busily to work 
 opening the mail, and I was left alone with my thoughts. 
 
 The workers were coming in rapidly now, and I had 
 opportunity for survey of merely a ciu-sory nature. Their 
 apparent cheerfulness rather surprised me, because it 
 contrasted so painfully with my own depression. It was 
 not long before the silent offices became thoroughly alive. 
 Typewriters were rattling, telephone bells ringing, con- 
 versation flying, just as if a day's work lay behind instead 
 of before. And it was only a few minutes after eight. 
 It was marvellous! 
 
 Presently a tall blonde, with cold blue eyes and firm 
 chin, and a very high collar, came over to me. "You're 
 Mr. Chandos, aren't you?" she asked. And at my reply 
 she smiled faintly. "I'm Miss Stromberg," she said. 
 "Mr. Keppy won't be in till late — after nine, probably. 
 But Mr. Brega's late now. He'll be here any minute. 
 Will you wait here or in his office?" 
 
 I thanked her, and because I had a better opportunity 
 
 73 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 to see things from my bench in the hall, I expressed myself 
 as willing to remain there. She merely nodded and 
 returned to her desk, over which htmg a flamboyantly 
 decorated sign with the word "Information" engrossed 
 upon it. I settled back to play the spectator and wait 
 for Brega. 
 
 He was not long in coming. I rose to greet him, and 
 unsmiling, he held out his hand, taking mine in the limp 
 grasp that epitomized the man. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Chandos,^' he said uninterestedly, 
 as if the effort at speech tired him. "Will you come into 
 my ofl&ce?" 
 
 I followed him, for the first time acutely aware of the 
 stares that followed me. I had been so interested in 
 studying my surroimdings that I had not given a thought 
 to the fact that my surroundings might be just as inter- 
 estedly studying me — ^with possibly the same unflattering 
 result! 
 
 Brega's ofi&ce, formed by one of the burlap partitions, 
 was in a comer, in an effort to secure the most light pos- 
 sible. 
 
 But as one window opened on the court, with some ten 
 stories of blank wall between it and the sky, and the other 
 faced on a narrow alley, it seemed that the end desired 
 had only been partially achieved. The room was about 
 twelve feet square. It was furnished with a couple of 
 drawing tables, a long desk at which a round-shouldered 
 
 74 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETTES 
 
 girl was poring over some account books, and an adding 
 machine. The girl did not look up until Brega spoke to 
 her, introducing me. Then she merely glanced at me, 
 nodded imsnulingly, and quickly returned to her work. 
 
 "We're a little crowded in here, Mr. Chandos," said 
 Brega, almost apologetically. "But you'U soon get used 
 to it, I'm sure. We've grown faster than our space, you 
 see. This is to be your desk," he continued apathetically. 
 "It may seem a trifle dark, but you'll find electricity a 
 satisfactory substitute for daylight on dark days. 
 
 I noted dismally that most of the daylight that would 
 reach me would have to come from the aUey window. But 
 I forced myself to reflect that this was a particularly dark 
 morning. Perhaps it would not be so bad ordinarily. 
 
 "Now, I suppose I'd better take you around and intro- 
 duce you to the oflSce," said Brega, after permitting me 
 a moment in which to accustom myself to my surround- 
 ings. I nodded silently and followed him into the adjoin- 
 ing compartment. 
 
 There were about twenty people, of both sexes, employed 
 by the Keppy Company, and none of those I met made 
 any particular impression upon me. Their reception of 
 me varied all the way from effusive cordiality and jovial 
 expressions of hope that I would like my new place, to 
 coldly disdainful nods. But friendliness affected me as 
 little as suspicion, because there stiU clung to me vestiges 
 of the conviction that after all these people had no vital 
 
 75 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 connection with my life. They were but actors in a some- 
 what unpleasant play that I was obliged to sit through, 
 and their liking or antipathy could in no way affect me 
 for better or for worse. I had much to learn. 
 
 The girl was operating the adding machine when we 
 returned to our "studio," and Brega answered my query 
 before it was uttered. 
 
 "It does make a racket, doesn't it," he said with a half 
 smile. "But you'll get used to it. It used to be in the 
 copy-writers' room, but they kicked so hard we had to 
 take it out. They claimed they couldn't write in such a 
 noise ..." 
 
 "But you could draw?" I asked sarcastically. 
 
 "Well, I tried to tell Mr. Keppy that it would be just 
 as bad in here, but he couldn't see it that way. But 
 really — I don't mind it at all now." 
 
 A series of violent shocks will produce a species of 
 anaesthesia. The ultimate shock of death is painless. 
 My sensibilities had received so many lacerations that 
 new ones could affect me not at alL Thus I was able to 
 survey the adding machine calmly, and raise my voice 
 over its clatter without even a frown on my face. 
 
 "WeU," said Brega, at length. "I suppose you are 
 anxious to get to work, eh?" 
 
 I answered, very truthfully, in the afiBrmative. I was 
 amdous to give my hands something to do, so that my 
 overworked brain might have time to rest and collate its 
 
 76 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETTES 
 
 multifarious and scattered impressions. My reply, there- 
 fore, was almost eager. 
 
 "Well, for a starter, you might try this. Here's the 
 copy. My idea is to have a man — ^middle-aged — pros- 
 peroxis — seated at his desk, looking at a letter. Make it 
 reduce two columns." 
 
 "Two col ?" My face was blank. 
 
 "Yes — ^that's four and an eighth, with another eighth 
 for border rule. And be careful of your lines. Use just 
 as few as possible — and black blot when you can. Con- 
 trast is what we want. Understand? Try it." Without 
 another word Brega left me and went to his own table. 
 Almost instantly, it seemed, he was buried in his own 
 work. 
 
 The adding machine had ceased its clatter, and the girl 
 had returned to her books. In perfect silence, therefore, 
 I stared out of the window, lost in reflection — of more 
 things than middle-aged gentlemen looking at letters. 
 Presently I became aware that Brega had lighted a pipe, 
 so I took out my cigarette case. I had scarcely drawn 
 three puffs, however, before Brega was at my side. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mr. Chandos — ^but, er — ^that isn't — er — 
 allowed here. Mr. Keppy — you know — er — " 
 
 I tossed the cigarette away. "I beg your pardon," I 
 said idly. "I had no desire to assume any privileges not 
 mine. But I saw you, and I . . ." 
 
 Brega's expression of pain changed to a relieved smile. 
 
 77 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "Oh, I see," he said. "But that's a different matter. 
 You see, I smoke a pipe. There's no objection to that. 
 But Mr. Keppy doesn't Uke the boys to smoke cigarettes, 
 I'm sure you'll be a good citizen." He smiled, half 
 interrogatively, and went back to his work. 
 
 For a while I sat in shame-faced idleness. In the first 
 place I really felt the deprivation rather keenly. But 
 more than that was the sense of petty tyranny, the tre- 
 mendous jar to my amour propre. I looked at Brega, con- 
 tentedly puffing at his noxious pipe — and I shuddered. 
 Cigars appealed to me somewhat; but I would not smoke 
 poor ones, and — I reflected dismally — I could not very 
 well buy any other kind. 
 
 It was a trifling matter, of course, this forced abnegation 
 from a pet vice; but it seemed to sum up and symbolize 
 all the manifold discomforts of my new life. To be de- 
 prived of aU the material luxuries that had in the past 
 come so plentifully, was simply to be a victim of Fate, a 
 circumstance at which no thinking man could possibly 
 rail. But for a free citizen, of age, in full possession of 
 his faculties, to be deprived of his own free will and action, 
 by a mere man, was almost too much to endure. For a 
 fraction of an instant I contemplated lighting another 
 cigarette, and stalking in disdainful dignity from this 
 slave-galley. But it was only for a fraction of an instant. 
 My next thought was of where to stalk to . , , and 
 with a muttered imprecation against man and the devil 
 
 78 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETXES 
 
 and their unholy alliance in the Keppy Company, I set 
 savagely to work on my drawing of a middle-aged-man-at- 
 a-desk-looking-at-a-letter . • . with plenty of contrast. 
 Contrast . . . could there possibly be more than 
 between what I was doing and what I was thinking! 
 
 The morning wore slowly away in a silence broken only 
 by the intermittent operations of the adding machine, 
 to which, in spite of Brega's optimistic prediction, I could 
 not grow accustomed. Occasionally the Head of the Art 
 Department would come over and give me what he called 
 "assistance." But his assistance consisted merely of 
 stereotyped and luke-warm commendation — ^neither con- 
 structive nor destructive, and more irritating than all the 
 disparagement in the vocabulary. 
 
 Finally, when it seemed to me that I had been working 
 at least eight hours, Brega looked at his watch. 
 
 "Oh, Chandos," he called over to me.* "I forgot to 
 teU you — ^your lunch hour is twelve thirty. Twelve thirty 
 to one thirty, you know. It's almost that now." 
 
 I smiled as I reached for my hat. The spectacle of 
 laborers dropping everything and running at the first 
 blast of the noon whistle had always amused me, and I 
 had been wont to reflect that their haste was due to their 
 lack of intelligent interest in their work. But I realized 
 now, with C3mical certainty, that I had not really known 
 very much about the matter. 
 
 As I went out I heard someone call to me, and I was 
 
 79 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 joined by one of the men in the office, a yoting fellow about 
 my age, whose name I failed to recall. 
 
 "You grub at twelve and a half, too?" he asked, 
 "Whither away?" 
 
 "Blessed if I know," I replied, shrugging my shoulders. 
 "I'm a stranger here — practically. Know a good place?" 
 
 "Well — I don't know how tony you are — ^but / usually 
 stoke up at a little beanery around the comer. No ban- 
 quet fare, of course — ^but it certainly is cheap. Come 
 with me — or do you prefer Rector's?" The young man 
 laughed at what he evidently considered a great pleasantry. 
 But my answering smile sprang from a different source. 
 It struck me, with ironic force, that the only restaurants 
 with which I was in the least familiar were just such as 
 my companion's smile had put beyond the realm of possi- 
 bility. 
 
 "By all means let us hie us to the beanery!" I cried 
 cheerfully. 
 
 Our frugal meal was eaten almost in silence. I ordered 
 in imitation of my companion, and then, after eating all I 
 could, gave myself up to a study of the crowd. Limch 
 coimters were a novelty to me — and a far from pleasing 
 one. But it amused me to compare the way these people 
 ate, with the way to which I had been accustomed. A 
 man would rush in, slide into a seat, give his order, swallow 
 the pie and coffee, and be picking his teeth before the 
 
 go 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETTES 
 
 cashier's desk in less time than it had taken me, in the 
 old days, to decide between white wine and red. 
 
 But my reflections were soon ended by my companion, 
 who seized his check and hurried off. I followed, noting 
 with horrified fascination, how quickly the places we had 
 vacated were filled. 
 
 On the street my friend stood for a moment chewing a 
 toothpick. Presently he tossed it away, and drew a 
 couple of cigars from his pocket, one of which he offered 
 to me. 
 
 "Smoke?" he asked affably. Unwilling to offend him, 
 I accepted his offering, and Ughted it. To my amazement 
 he returned the other cigar to his pocket, and in its place 
 brought forth a much worn pipe, which he carefully filled 
 and lighted. 
 
 "What's the matter?" I asked, almost suspiciously, 
 "Don't you like cigars?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," he replied with a grin. "I like 'em right 
 enough. But on a salary like mine you can't do all the 
 tilings you'd like to." 
 
 Mingled feelings surged within me — ^gratitude for the 
 other's obvious generosity . . . and then, as I 
 smoked, nausea at its expression! I tried to finish what 
 I had begun, but a taste carefully nurtured on the cream 
 of the Vuelta Abajo was not to be thus quickly overcome, 
 even by an act of will. I was forced to let the weed die 
 out . . . which, alas, was noticed by my companion, 
 
 8i 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 with the immediate and solicitous proffer of a match. 
 There was nothing to do but accept it, and relight the 
 dgar, this time to smoke it viciously down to a point 
 where I could decently drop it in the gutter. It left my 
 fingers with a gesture of relief that I trust my friend did 
 not see. 
 
 "The food you get in these hash-houses may not be 
 the best in the world," observed my friend, as we walked 
 along. "But you can't eat much of it — ^and that's an 
 advantage. If you eat a lot for lunch you're dopey for 
 hours afterward. In some ways us poor guys is better 
 off than the millionaires. Then your lunch don't take 
 but a minute, and you can get in a bit of a walk after- 
 ward." 
 
 "You're a philosopher," I said. 
 
 "Gee — I gotta be!" he chuckled. "I gotta have some- 
 thin' t' take the place of the dollars I don't get." We 
 were silent for a time. Then he waved his arm. "There 
 are a lot of us, ain't there — ^what couldn't we do if we'd 
 only get t'gether?" 
 
 I curled my lip in disdain at the crowds that surged 
 about us on the street. Men, like my companion — "us" 
 — strolling along in pairs and threes, smoking, observing 
 the life about them with a placid — ^almost bovine — con- 
 tent. Girls, more animated, giggling, hurrying — always 
 hurrying — ^no one could guess whither or whence, formed 
 a colorful backgroimd. And little groups of boys, hoarse 
 
 82 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETTES 
 
 of voice, indescribably clumsy of movement, gambolled 
 about like puppies let out for an airing. Everywhere 
 was movement, and everywhere, it seemed, a mysterious 
 faith that after all, life really was worth the living. But 
 there was no such faith in my soul. Life in the abstract, 
 life in the mass, had never appealed to me. My friends 
 had been few; my aversions many. Humanity, as I saw 
 it, humanity — though I did not realize it — on the surface, 
 bored me tremendously. I shuddered to think of the 
 loneliness that might be mine in the midst of this vast 
 pulsating mob. 
 
 I realized dimly that during all these reflections 
 my companion was chatting garrulously. But as his 
 conversation seemed to proceed satisfactorily without re- 
 gard for response, I made no effort to speak myself. But 
 I was rudely recalled from recondite speculation to grim 
 reality by the sight of my friend's suddenly extracted 
 watch. 
 
 "Lord!" he cried, with real consternation on his. face. 
 "We've only got four minutes to get back to the office." 
 
 "What," I asked, idly curious at this novel respect for 
 time, "would happen to you — ^to us — ^if we were late?" 
 
 "Hell from Keppy," replied the young man succinctly. 
 "And if it happened too often, so much hell that you'd 
 have to resign to save your face." 
 
 "Would he discharge you — I mean us?" 
 
 "Not a chance! He's too damned kind hearted. He'd 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 labor with you — and tell everybody what a fine young 
 man you were, but — and finally he'd just have to let you 
 go. Regretfully, you know ... or, very regretfully. 
 In the meantime everybody in the business would have 
 your number as a Lazy Larry — and jobs at best aren't 
 as plentifiil as they might be. Oh, it's a great game. I've 
 seen it puUed off lots o' times. Let's hustle." 
 
 Further conversation was ended by our separation in 
 the crowded elevator, and almost before I realized it, 
 I was back at my desk, ready to complete my man-with-a- 
 letter. As I sat down, Morris, the ofiice boy, came up 
 to me. 
 
 "Th' ol' man wants t' see ye, Mr, Chandos," he whis- 
 pered with what seemed a malevolent grin. With an odd 
 pounding of the heart I followed the young Mercury into 
 my employer's office. 
 
 "Sit down, Mr. Chandos," said Keppy, unsmiling, and 
 not offering his hand. "Sorry I wasn't here to see you, 
 this morning. But Brega got you started all right, 
 didn't he?" 
 
 I murmured an assent, wondering what was coming. 
 
 "Good. Glad to hear of it. Good man — ^Brega. It'll 
 pay you to follow him. One of the best in the business, 
 he is. He'U help you a lot." 
 
 A recollection of Brega's "help" rose in my mind, but 
 I said nothing, and Keppy went on, the tone of his voice 
 changing ever so slightly. 
 
 84 
 
I GIVE UP CIGARETTES 
 
 "By the way, Chandos, I just called you in here to give 
 you a tip. You were a little late getting in this noon. 
 Bad start, Mr. Chandos, bad start! I noticed that you 
 were out with Traxler. Let me give you a tip. Don't 
 pattern after Traxler. He's a nice young fellow, but 
 . . . " Keppy leaned forward, and his voice grew 
 confidential. "This stays under your hat . . . but 
 I'll tell you, seein' it's for your good . . . I'm afraid 
 I may have to let Traxler go. He's a mighty nice young 
 chap, and I'd like to keep him — but he simply won't pay 
 any attention to hours. I can't afford to let him go on 
 like this. He'll ruin the whole office. See what he's done 
 to you already ... I'd hate to have you fall into his 
 ways, Chandos," he added meaningly. 
 
 The interview seemed to be over, so I rose and bowed 
 stiffly. Keppy said no more, but turned to his desk 
 abruptly, and began writing. I opened the door and went 
 out. My face burned, and I felt like a whipped puppy. 
 I was certain that I detected smiles on the faces of some 
 of the stenographers, and Miss Stromberg, whose desk 
 was nearest Keppy's office, eyed me curiously. Never in 
 my life had I felt more humiliated. And when I passed 
 Traxler's compartment, and saw the poor fellow, all uncon- 
 scious of his impending fate, buried in his work, coat off, 
 hair tousled, my humiHation gave way to rage. He and 
 I were "us" in being both so utterly at the mercy of those 
 above us. 
 
 8S 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 As I sat down at my table, my spirit was filled with 
 revolt not alone at my own situation, but at all the 
 machinery of life that made it possible. AU sorts of mad 
 resolutions to escape swarmed in my brain, and I cursed 
 my employer fervently tmder my breath. I was grateful, 
 therefore, even though it brought home the more clearly 
 my impotence, when Brega came to me with more work. 
 
 "And don't put so much time on it," he said with a hint 
 of irritability in his voice. "Speed and volume are what 
 we want more than elaborate workmanship, Mr. Chandos. 
 You ought to finish this by four o'clock at the outside." 
 "I dipped my pen in the ink, viciously. 
 
 Foiir o'clock — ^hell . . . you'll have it by three!" 
 
 86 
 
M' 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 Y FIRST STEP, after getting somewhat established 
 in the routine of my work, was to seek an abode 
 that would make less of a drain upon my re- 
 sources than the University Club did. I did not in the 
 least know how to go about it, but Traxler recommended 
 his own boarding place so highly that I went out with 
 him one evening to look it over. 
 
 With the irony that so often characterizes the neigh- 
 borhoods of great cities, it proved to be on Dearborn 
 Avenue, not a gun shot from some of the most palatial 
 residences the town possessed. The building itself had 
 once been the home of wealth, when Dearborn Avenue 
 had been an aristocratic thoroughfare; but the interior, 
 soaked in the ineradicable odor of years of cooking, shabby 
 and in need of the most fimdamental repairs, was aU too 
 plainly proletarian. Traxler showed his own room with 
 something akin to pride, but I found it difficult to conceal 
 my disgust. I realized, however, that I was not likely 
 to do better, so a week later, in response to Trader's sug- 
 gestion, inspired partly by economy, and partly by real 
 generosity, my few belongings were installed in his room; 
 and I became a dtdy accredited representative of the 
 
 87 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "hall-room-within-seven-minutes-of-the-ioop" class that 
 constitutes the bulk of a metropolitan population between 
 the ages of twenty and thirty-five. 
 
 I paid six dollars and a half a week for my room and 
 board. Fifteen cents a day for my luiicheons added a 
 dollar more. Then I had purchased a pipe, which I dili- 
 gently but somewhat unsuccessfully sought to enjoy, and 
 its maintenance cost me a quarter a week. Car fare, 
 laundry, and vaudeville every Saturday, completed my 
 budget. My only real "luxury" was my membership in 
 the Club, which I persuaded myself I ought to keep, 
 because it maintained the only bond between me and 
 what I persisted in believing was my own class. For the 
 little that remained after all expenses were met, I followed 
 Traxler's suggestion, and secured a savings-bank; and in 
 this, with a bitter laugh every time I did it, I deposited a 
 very occasional nickel. 
 
 Day after day I resolved to call again on Dorothy 
 Gresham. But day after day my resolution failed me. 
 Then one night, when Traxler happened to be away, I sat 
 down with my pipe and endeavored to reason matters 
 out. To begin with, it had to be admitted that in my 
 younger days I had been in love with her — or had thought 
 I was . . . which, after all, amounts to the same 
 thing. Separation had cooled my ardor, and my fancy 
 had imperceptibly faded into a sweet memory — ^nothing 
 else. But it seemed now as if all the picture had suddenly 
 
 88 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 sprung into color again. What I had thought banished, 
 was merely faded. Indeed, now, it was even clearer than 
 it had been in the beginning. 
 
 Well then . . . admitting that she was a great 
 deal more than I had ever dreamt she could be . . . 
 what about it? The matter must be faced practically. 
 With a grimace I emptied my pipe and sat back with my 
 eyes closed. Suppose I did . . . love her; yes, that 
 was the word. I might just as well be honest with myself 
 and face it. Suppose I did . . . what was I going 
 to do about it? 
 
 I opened my eyes and surveyed the shabby aspect of 
 my abode. My jaw set grimly. If — ^what a tremendous 
 word — if things were different . . . but, well — ^it 
 was not for me to dream. My income did not permit 
 of such luxiuies as dreams. And love — matrimony — ^all 
 that sort of thing was of such stuff as dreams are made 
 of. I opened my mouth and whistled blithdy — more or 
 less. And then, exemplif3^g my spirit of martj^dom, I 
 refilled and lighted my odious pipe. 
 
 When Traxler came in later he foimd me asleep in the 
 morris chair, with a library copy of the "Reveries of a 
 Bachelor" in my lap . . . open at the second Revery. 
 
 But my new found decision was not destined to very 
 long life. Just a week after I had ruthlessly slaughtered 
 all my hopes and buried them deep in forgetfulness, they 
 sprang to life . . . and through no effort of mine. 
 
 89 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 I came home late one night to find Traxler rejoicing in 
 the receipt of a letter, which he waved at me hilariously. 
 
 "For the worthy Chandos," he cried gleefully. "Your 
 sins have found you out. I thought you knew no ladies. 
 You're a smooth one, you are!" 
 
 With a sinking heart I took the missive, and held it 
 for a moment. And then while Traxler eyed me curiously, 
 I tore it open. 
 
 "Dear Harlan," it read, "You have treated me abomi- 
 nably, and I am throwing maidenly pride to the winds 
 in thus writing you. Why have you never let me hear 
 from you? Have I changed as much as that? Do you 
 think it fair — even decently well-mannered — to treat me 
 this way? However, I'll forgive you if you will make up 
 for your bad behavior by dining with me on Tuesday next 
 — at half after seven. Will you?" 
 
 I stood silently studsnng the note, biting my lip, and 
 quite oblivious to Traxler's frankly curious stare. Then 
 I looked at the epistle again. There was a post-script 
 attached. 
 
 "P.-S. You needn't fear being bored with me — ^there 
 will be several really interesting people here — ^and some 
 women that I am sure you will find worth while." 
 
 I sank into a chair, staring into vacancy. My room- 
 mate was the first to break the silence. "For goodness 
 sake," he cried in a voice that betrayed his real concern. 
 ' 'What's up? Anything very wrong?" 
 
 90 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 My reply was nothing if not enigmatic. Very care- 
 fully I tore the note into minute bits, and deposited them 
 in the waste-basket. Then I heaved a long sigh. 
 
 "Don't, my dear Traxler," I said finally, "ever make 
 up your mind to anjrthing. Because . . . sooner 
 or later, you'll have to change it. And that's painful!" 
 
 It was otir night for relaxation at the vaudeville, and 
 further conversation was made impossible by the necessity 
 for haste. Once or twice Traxler made openings for 
 further confidences, but I repulsed hirn almost rudely 
 each time. He must have found me hopelessly tadtum; 
 for he finally gave me up to my own reflections, whatever 
 they might be, while he himself devoted his entire attention 
 to securing full value from the investment he had made 
 in entertainment. 
 
 Tuesday evening found me arrayed in attire that had 
 become almost foreign to me. When I was all prepared, 
 my silk hat carefully brushed — as well as it cotdd be 
 brushed — ^my clothes nearly free from dust, with the 
 trousers let down lower than was quite correct, so as to 
 conceal the regrettable fact that my hosiery was not silk 
 but cotton, Traxler summoned a few of the elect to view 
 the Beau Brummel of the house. But their raillery was 
 good-humored, and their essential friendliness too obvious 
 for question. I fotmd myself, as I went out, marvelling 
 at the undeniable fact that the interest of these people 
 actually pleased me. To them I was making a Great 
 
 91 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 Adventure, into a totally tmknown world. How the call 
 came, they neither knew — ^nor cared greatly. It was 
 sufficient that I was going, for them to wish me all God- 
 speed. But as I waved my good-byes, I wondered what 
 they would think if they knew all that lay beneath my 
 starched shirt-bosom. . . . what a tremendously 
 Great Adventure it really was, I laughed gaily back at 
 the noisy crowd on the steps, but my heart was timorous. 
 
 More than once before I reached the Gresham residence 
 did I pause to reflect, and more than once did a mad 
 impulse to flight seize me. But I resolutely forced m3rself 
 on, and presently found myself in Dorothy's drawing 
 room, .shaking hands with the hostess in the most matter 
 of fact manner imaginable, quite as if I did it every day 
 in the year. My imagination had woven such a scene 
 about this meeting that its undramatic reality almost 
 bewildered me. 
 
 I realized, vaguely, that Dorothy was rebuking me 
 pleasantly for my treatment of her, and I answered her 
 mechanically. Then, of a sudden, like a bit of drift-wood, 
 cast up by the waves, I found mjraelf quite alone, high 
 and dry gainst the wall, while the hostess was welcoming 
 another guest. 
 
 I found the respite a gratifying one, partly because it 
 gave me time to collect my scattered thoughts, and 
 partly because it aflEorded me an opportunity to study the 
 gathaing. 
 
 92 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 And as I stood there, in contemplative silence, a half- 
 smile broke over my face. It surely was a gathering 
 worth studjnng. The women, almost without exception, 
 were badly dressed, a characteristic that lent a certain 
 uniformity to them. But the men were sharply differ- 
 entiated — different in size, manner, voice, language — 
 everything. At first it seemed to me that all were talking, 
 but I soon realized that they merely talked in different 
 ways. Some used words, but some told all they wished 
 in gesture, and some even were satisfied with their shoiil- 
 ders ... or their eyes. 
 
 But further consideration of the amusing spectacle was 
 cut short by Dorothy herself, who caught my arm and 
 drew me toward one of the voluble groups. 
 
 "Forgive me, Harlan," she cried, "I forgot that you 
 knew none of these people. Miss Hardinge-Jones," she 
 turned to a tall, severe looking female of indeterminate 
 age, "allow me to present Mr. Chandos." I bowed my 
 acknowledgments, but the lady abated none of her 
 frigidity until Dorothy mentioned casually that I was 
 fresh from Paris. Then she smiled quite affably. 
 
 Rapidly my hostess piloted me from group to group, 
 introducing me to each one, and permitting but a word 
 of acknowledgment before I was hurried on to the next. 
 
 "Of course you won't remember their names from this," 
 she explained, "But I'll have you next to me at dinner, 
 and I can point them out to you." 
 
 93 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 'Tardon me, Dorothy/' I asked, "but is this — er — 
 Chicago's Bohemia?" 
 
 She looked at me quizzically for a moment, as if trying 
 to see whether I was disposed to jeer or not. Then she 
 smiled a little defiantly, I thought. "Everyone here is 
 
 famous for something," she said "Oh, pardon 
 
 me a moment, Harlan. Billy will be lost in this crowd." 
 
 She hurried to greet a new-comer who had just entered. 
 I lecognized him as Harrower. But my momentary 
 feeling of surprise was lost in my interested comparison 
 of the young man with the other guests, as Dorothy intro- 
 duced him to them. He was conspicuously of better 
 phj^aque, and his clothes fitted him infinitely better. 
 There was a clear, out-door look to his eyes and skin, too, 
 that none of the other men had; and his dean shaven 
 mouth gave an appearance of candor that contrasted well 
 with the beards and moustaches of the others. 
 
 "Here's someone you know, BiUy," I heard Dorothy 
 say, and I saw Harrower hold out his hand. But the 
 momentary flash of relief on his face was succeeded by a 
 slight reserve, and his greeting was not warm. I was 
 grateful for the annotmcement of dinner. 
 
 At diimer I found myself seated between Dorothy and 
 a Miss Bennett, a tall, thin woman with a curiously sharp- 
 featured face that told me nothing of her temperament. 
 She was dressed like all the other women, though, if 
 possible, in a little worse taste. Her voice was metallic 
 
 54 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 and her method of speaking, abrupt, conves^ing an im- 
 pression of perpetual impatience. We had been seated 
 only a moment when Dorothy leaned over to me. "You 
 won't be angry if I don't talk to you, will you Harlan?" 
 she whispered. "I've simply got to devote myself to 
 Billy here. You talk to Muriel Bennett . . . she'll 
 tell you all about these people, if you ask her." 
 
 She would have been surprised had she knoWn how 
 grateful I was for her words. They absolved me from a 
 conversation that I feared, and although I realized that it 
 was at best temporary, I yet welcomed any reprieve. So 
 I turned to Miss Bennett. 
 
 "Tell me, please," I said, "who these difiEerent people 
 are . . . and what?" 
 
 She laughed, showing her large teeth prominently. 
 "Introductions don't do you much good, apparently, Mr. 
 Chandos." 
 
 "What's a name without a description?" I repUed. 
 "Tell me something about this gathering." 
 
 "Well, beginning with Dorothy, there's Mr. Harrower, 
 He's the only one I don't know." 
 
 "He's the only one I do," I laughed, "So proceed." 
 
 "Next to him is Miss Hardinge- Jones. She's a sculp- 
 tress of considerable note . . , locally, at least." 
 
 "Whence the — er — ^hard look in her face?" 
 
 "The same reason that I look hard. Because she gave 
 up life for a 'career.' " 
 
 95 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 I looked at Miss Bennett critically. But if there was 
 any seriousness underlying her strange words she con- 
 cealed it by hurrying on, 
 
 "The next exhibit is Albert Winston. His books are on 
 every news-stand, and his income is positively indecent. 
 You look like an intelligent young man, so I assume that 
 you have read none of his work. But Albert himself is 
 the very antithesis of his books. He writes for the gum 
 chewers and buys Corots with the proceeds. Profes- 
 sionally I detest him. Personally I enjoy him intensely. 
 
 "On his left is HUda Carew . . . the fluffy little 
 thing. She does interior decoration . . . that looks 
 just like she does. Lots of color, florid, bizarre, and — " 
 
 "In atrocious taste?" I supplemented interrogatively. 
 Miss Bennett looked at me for a moment. Then she 
 leaned over to Dorothy. 
 
 "How far may I go with this young man?" she whispered. 
 
 "Knock to your heart's content, Muriel," Dorothy 
 responded cheerfully. "The others will do the same by 
 you later on." 
 
 Miss Bennett showed her teeth in a smile that was not 
 entirely pleasant. "I guess that's true," she murmured, 
 "so I shall proceed to demolish every reputation at the 
 board." 
 
 "Do your worst," said I. "I'll discount your profes- 
 sional criticisms, and swallow only the personal." 
 
 96 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 "I see you have lived long enough in Paris to know 
 something of Bohemia," she said quizzically. 
 
 "I have been an interested observer of the essential 
 folly in Ruskin's belief that a great work always sprang 
 from a great man. But don't let's wander into the general. 
 Please go on with the specific." 
 
 "Well, next to Miss Carew is Douglas Roget. He's a 
 dilettante and dabbler who writes delightful little essays 
 on topics in which no one could possibly be interested. 
 He's an entertaining chap. Talks brilliantly — ^and says 
 nothing. Quite an art, it must be. Puerility in epigram, 
 you know. 
 
 "At his left sits Mrs. Wodehouse. Bluest of the blue- 
 stocking University crowd, and general impressario for 
 her husband, who teaches English and writes stories to 
 keep in touch with life. It was quite an accompUshment 
 for Dorothy to get them here tonight. Personally I find 
 Mrs. W. very dull, but her presence never fails to put 
 an intellectual O. K. on any gathering." 
 
 "What does she talk about?" I asked. 
 
 "She doesn't talk," replied Miss Bennett. "She criti- 
 cizes. She's like me. Her forte is to catch other people 
 up in their errors. She's a perfect genius at maintaining 
 accuracy. 
 
 "Beside her, the youngish man with the mournful, 
 ethereal expression, and the magnificent appetite, is 
 Bartolo*. He's a violin in the Orchestra for a living, and 
 
 97 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 a musical genius for fun. To hear him talk at a gather- 
 ing like this you'd never suspect what a gross little hog he 
 really is. Aside from music he's an utter ignoramus, but 
 emotional women simply idolize him. Rather good 
 looking, though, isn't he?" 
 
 I laughed. "Well, now that you have them all dock- 
 eted, please finish off with Miss Bennett." 
 
 "Miss Bennett is an add person of a great many more 
 years than she admits, who writes for newspapers or 
 anyone who will employ her, on art and painting. That 
 sounds like a tautology — but isn't. She has an amiable 
 strain in her but up to date no one has been able to dis- 
 cover it. She is courted by those aspiring to fame, and 
 heartily disliked by those who think they have it. Really, 
 my yotmg friend, she is an exceedingly disagreeable 
 creature. But now . . . in return for all my slanders 
 . . , tell me about Mr. Chandos. What is his 
 tnMier?" 
 
 I laughed almost bitterly. "I cannot tell you his 
 mitier, for the very excellent reason that he has none." 
 
 "That is the usual reply of those who amount to some- 
 thing," said Miss Bennett with a severity that belied the 
 flattery of her words. "But it proves that w^tever 
 your interests are, they lie outside the artistic world. 
 Unblushing egotism seems the necessary concomitant of 
 art. , Now describe yourself without further parley." 
 
 "Very well," said I, rather enjoying the dismal task of 
 
 98 
 
NEAR BOHEMIA 
 
 recotinting my woes. "I was bom rich, and now am 
 poor. I was educated for art, acquired a taste for books, 
 pictures, music — and now I'm in business." 
 
 "Sort of an expatriated Bohemian, dwelling lonely in 
 the country of the Philistines, eh?" 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "What brought you to Chicago? . . . Dorothy told 
 me she had a man fresh from the Boulevards." 
 
 "Stem necessity," I said shortly, unwilling to go into 
 the painful details of my emigration. "I was bom here, 
 you see, and I thought I'd like to die here too." 
 
 "So you're in business, eh? What?" 
 
 "Advertising." 
 
 "Write?" 
 
 "No— draw." 
 
 "So— who with?" 
 
 "Keppy Company." 
 
 Miss Bennett looked at me curiously — almost pityii^ly, 
 I fancied. "So you're with Keppy are you. Well, he's 
 arrived ... by the dollar test." 
 
 "You know something of his business, then? Tell me 
 about it — please." 
 
 "Heavens — I don't know anything about his business. 
 But I know htm. It's my business to know everybody. 
 I'm a professional gossip. That's why I wanted to know 
 all about you. That is also why . . . whisper it 
 
 99 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 . . . people are nice to me, even when they're anything 
 but nice about me!" 
 
 "Well, then, tell me about Keppy." 
 
 "Oh, nothing much to tell. He's a very ordinary man. 
 Conscientiously dishonest, with the 'all's fair in business' 
 doctrine firmly fixed in his mind. He's very conventional 
 — particularly in his dishonesties. Very generous . • . 
 in conventional charities, but a slave-driver otherwise. 
 He has a genius for getting others to make money for 
 him. But if he drives others, his wife drives him. She 
 started him in business, and she never lets him forget it. 
 She's society-mad . . . It's through her that I came 
 to know about him. But here, Mr. Chandos, you've 
 made me behave very badly. I've absolutely monopolized 
 your conversation. Now talk to Dorothy for a while." 
 
 I could not very well protest, particularly as Dorothy 
 turned to me at that very minute. But I experienced a 
 slight sinking of the heart, and Harrower's baleful eye 
 across the table did not increase my comfort. However, 
 there was nothing for it but to plunge bravely in. 
 
 "What did I say that so offended you?" said Dorothy 
 softly, without looking at me. 
 
 "I don't quite understand," I replied mendaciously, 
 sparring for time. 
 
 "You were sorry that I asked you here tonight." Her 
 tone was half interrogative. 
 
 100 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 "Dorothy!" I did my best to convey an impression of 
 shock. I failed completely, and I knew it. 
 
 "Do you want me to tell you what went on in your 
 mind?" 
 
 "Pray do," I said humbly. "Nothing could interest me 
 more." But my sarcasm was lost on her. 
 
 "You think I don't know," she said in the same tone, 
 tojdng thoughtfully with her wine-glass. "But I do. 
 When you came back to Chicago, you were lonely. You 
 cast about for something . . . someone . . . that 
 would coimect you with the city. And I proved to be 
 . . . . the nearest. You . . ." 
 
 "Really, Dorothy," I cried, "this is . . ." 
 
 "Please don't interrupt. You came to see me — to find 
 out what I was like. And you — ^well . . . you found 
 that 'the flower that once is blown forever dies.' I 
 didn't offend you by anything I said. I simply disap- 
 pointed you by what I was — or what I was not. You 
 were hurt because I hadn't remained the same . . . and 
 because you hadn't. Isn't that all so?" There was some- 
 thing almost wistful in her voice, as if she hoped against 
 hope that I would tell her she vras mistaken. 
 
 The appalling way in which feminine intuition some- 
 times goes astray often leads me to wonder why it main- 
 tains its hold upon the human mind as one of the indis- 
 putable things of life. In the present case I was too 
 stunned for speech at the thorough-going way in which 
 
 lOI 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 Dorothy had let intuition entangle her. Had she tried 
 she covdd not have hit farther from the mark. And the 
 thought made me snule, involimtarily. She caught the 
 effect, without, of course, realizing the cause, and she 
 stiffened instantly. 
 
 "It is siUy of me, isn't it, to make such a fuss over the 
 fact that I don't particularly interest you?" she said 
 frigidly. "It seems to be my fate to throw myself at your 
 reluctant head." 
 
 "My dear girl ..." It was all I could do to 
 refrain from seizing her hand, lying so tantalizingly close 
 to mine. "If you only knew what unutterable nonsense 
 you are saying!" 
 
 "Are you trying to see how much you can hurt me?" 
 Her voice trembled ever so slightly. 
 
 "If I tried with all my might to hurt you, I could not 
 inflict a thousandth part of the misery on you that you have 
 already inflicted upon me," I said in a voice that for all 
 my efforts I could not keep quite steady. 
 
 She turned and looked quite sharply at me for several 
 moments. When she finally spoke her tone was severely 
 even. Plainly she did not in the least understand the 
 turn our conversation was taking. It irritated her . . . 
 as it always irritates a woman to feel the mastery of a 
 situation slipping from her. She had suddenly sensed an 
 aggressor in me, and all her wistfulness vanished in a 
 sudden effort to don her armor. 
 
 102 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 "Just exactly what do you mean?" Her lips were a 
 little more compressed than usual, as she studied me. 
 
 I tried to be flippant, because I felt that in persiflage 
 lay my salvation. "Ah, dear lady, if I told you the truth, 
 you would convict me of flattery. And nothing so hurts 
 the sincere as the charge of insincerity." 
 
 "If you prefer not to explain, that is of course your 
 privilege," said Dorothy very coldly, but with just the 
 faintest suspicion of a droop at the comers of her mouth. 
 Whether that droop was conscious or not, makes little 
 difference. It was none the less the final shot that demol- 
 ished all my slow-buUt resolution. Slowly, almost regret- 
 fully, I ran up the white flag. 
 
 "I have staid out of the garden," I said very softly, with 
 a tenderness as natural as my voice itself, "because the 
 flower was not for me. There is your answer!" 
 
 "It wasn't the flower, then?" 
 
 "No . . . it wasn't the flower." 
 
 "And . . . you're not . . . entirely disappointed?" She 
 lifted those glorious eyes of her's the veriest trifle, and 
 glimpsed me from under lashes that proved the Creator 
 a man . . . no feminine deity would ever have armed 
 her sex with such weapons! 
 
 "Disappointed ... I ..." It wiU avail 
 nothing to wonder what I almost said. The only fact 
 that is of interest is the fact that I did not say it! Some 
 anonymous savior from down the table called Dorothy's 
 
 103 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 name, and thus effectually recalled me to myself. I sat 
 back, trembling uncontrollably. I felt as if there must 
 be cold sweat on my forehead. My emotions were 
 similar, I think, to those of a man sliding down a steep 
 roof, who gives himself up for lost . . . and then, 
 just as his feet go over the brink, a friendly spike catches 
 his coat collar and brings him up with a jerk. But just 
 as a coat may tear, I cherished no illusions as to the per- 
 manence of my present safety. Feverishly I tried to 
 secure once more the conversational attention of Miss 
 Bennett. As I turned, I caught the gaze of Harrower 
 fixed upon me. There was a look in his eyes that seemed 
 positively malevolent. But further thought of Harrower 
 or my sudden escape, was ended by the rising of the 
 ladies, and the consequent gathering of the men for that 
 curiously barbaric function known as "smoking." 
 
 The custom of ladies leaving the gentlemen, after 
 dinner, to their cigars and coffee, originated, I suppose, in 
 the fact that the ladies did not smoke. The gentle crea- 
 tures repaired to the drawing rooms, there to discuss 
 babies, clothes, scandal, and the multitudinous nonsense 
 with v,-hich their dependent lives were filled. But nowa- 
 days, though the form is unchanged, the substance is 
 vastly different. The feminine horizon has broadened 
 trranendously, and women have few interests that they 
 hold beneath or above them. They repair to the drawing 
 rooms, as before, but they smoke themselves. They still 
 
 104 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 talk of babies and scandal — ^but civics and politics — even 
 business — as well. 
 
 I rather welcomed the respite from lovely woman, if the 
 truth be told; and I wanted to see what manner of men 
 were these about me. With the single exception of 
 narrower, who sat gloomily by himself, chewing a large 
 black cigar, they all seemed to know one another. The 
 discussion was general, and I set myself to listen. 
 
 But I was not sorry when we rejoined the ladies, though 
 I cannot truthfully say that the remainder of the evening 
 filled me with unalloyed delight. The quality of the 
 conversation changed completely, it is true; but it changed 
 too much. From stupid pettiness it leaped at one bound 
 to the most magnificent pedanticism. I think it was 
 Macaulay who observed that "there cannot be a conversa- 
 tion between more than two persons." Dorothy's 
 gathering would have justified him. Everybody talked, 
 but so far as I could tell, nobody listened. Each one 
 spouted upon his chosen milier, and each one endeavored 
 not so much to add to the general knowledge about his 
 subject, as to say something that would call for a little 
 applause. It was really comic the way they went through 
 their verbal capers. Someone, in a moment of awful 
 carelessness, had applied to them the dangerous word 
 "clever;" and each one was exerting himself to the utnlost 
 to justify it. They were an adjectivial lot, if I may use 
 the term. Their lives were verbally superlative. Ego- 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 tism was the key-note of them all, and the constant reitera- 
 tion of "I" was like an obligato running through their 
 punditical song. 
 
 It must sound strange for me, a confessed exponent of 
 "culture," to thus decry the efforts of these people. But 
 the culture I had known seemed at the time like a vastly 
 different thing. As I look back on it now I realize that 
 cant is cant, whether it be uttered in French or English, 
 whether its siUy little com^y be played in Chicago or 
 Paris. But as I stood then in Dorothy's drawing room, 
 listening to little Bartolo mournfully descanting upon the 
 marginal consciousness of Debussy, to Miss Carew vaguely 
 but industriously expressing her views on the philosophy 
 of color, to the intermittent popping of Douglas Roget's 
 witticisms, with their coordinate smoke of applause, I 
 felt supremely bored, though precisely the same sort of 
 nonsense uttered in a Parisian salon would have impressed 
 me vastly. I see the absurdity of my position clearly 
 enough now, but at the time I was too wearied, I suppose, 
 to think of anything but my own ennui. 
 
 The fortunes of conversation brought me at last to the 
 side of the aspersive Miss Bennett. She smiled cheerfully 
 at my approach, and promptly turned her back on the 
 gentleman with whom she had been talking, an insult 
 that I laid, rightly, less to my own charms than to her 
 indifference to him. 
 
 1 06 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 "Well," she said, "and how are you getting on in our 
 exotic ranks?" 
 
 "Come over here." I led the way to a lounge near a 
 large palm where we would be out of the main channels of 
 verbiage, and might talk without getting swamped 
 in the wash of pseudo proftmdity that swirled about the 
 centre of the room. "Tell me what's the trouble with 
 me," I said. "I'm bored . . . horribly." 
 
 "Who've you been talking with ... or rather, 
 who's been talking to you?" 
 
 I gave her a smile for the cleverness of the distinction. 
 "It isn't specific — ^it's general. And it isn't objective — 
 it's subjective." 
 
 She looked at me narrowly for a moment. "How many 
 painters do you know — painters that can really paint — 
 who wear pancake hats and flowing ties and velvet jackets 
 and flufEy brown beards?" And when I looked a little 
 puzzled, she went oh: "These people aren't cultured 
 . . . they're only the whipping boys of ciilture. They 
 keep the people off, entertain them while the real show 
 goes on inside the tent. Dorothy Gresham's a nice girl, 
 but she couldn't get the men and women who actually 
 do big things inside her house with a halter. They're 
 too busy worldng to talk. These people here . . . 
 oh, I might as well be perfectly frank , . . work is a 
 side issue. Talk is the main thing in life for them. Look 
 on all this as a farce. Forget the tragedy of puny man 
 
 107 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 gambolling before his mirror. Don't take them seriously 
 • . . only seem to. And talk some twaddle yourself." 
 
 "But I never used to feel this way!" I cried, like a child 
 who has been hurt through no fault of its own. 
 
 "You never used to work for a living," she said seriously. 
 "Let me tell you something, young man, and let me assure 
 you that it comes from one who knows. You can't toil 
 for your daily bread at unpleasant tasks and maintain 
 many illusions about yourself. You lose illusions about 
 your work, and presently the stripping process reaches 
 yourself. In your old days, I suppose, you were all 
 wrapped up in illusions. You're losing them. You're 
 beginning to get acquainted with yourself . . . you're 
 learning what you really are." 
 
 "But you ... do you take them seriously?" 
 
 "I? Heavens! ... I don't take anybody seri- 
 ously. I've dallied with newspapers so long that I'm 
 fairly saturated with the Commie Humaine. There 
 isn't any tragedy in life for me . . . and so nothing 
 saddens me. And there's nothing serious ... so 
 nothing irritates me. I am the perfect incarnation of 
 detachment. Try it, my friend. Be an observer of life, 
 and nothing will trouble you. Of cotu-se you'll never 
 accomplish anything," she added cynically, "but — well 
 .... read the immortal Guy's 'Gargon — Un Bock.' 
 Learn the philosophy of stagnation!" 
 
 I suppose I must have looked my bewilderment at her 
 
 1 08 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 rapid staccato conversation; for her face softened notice- 
 ably, and her voice sank lower. She was silent for a 
 moment, and then a tired, wistful expression came into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "I said there was no tragedy in life. Why, I'm a tragedy 
 myself. I've practiced talking euphemistic metaphysical 
 nonsense for so long that I can't seem to talk any other 
 way. But I'm not trying to glitter for you ... I 
 paid for my dinner long ago. I know your trouble, 
 though . . . because I had something similar to it 
 myself — once. I could tell you the cure, too . . . 
 only it never is a cure until we find it out for ourselves. 
 And besides — ^the quicker you find it, the quicker you'll 
 lose all the little interest you have now, in me. You and 
 I could be good friends — ^mighty good friends," she said 
 a trifle sadly, "If you staid where you are. But you won't 
 . . . you won't. And it's better so . . . 
 
 "She certainly is a beauty," said Miss Bennett without 
 rancor, after a pause. I almost jumped. I was perfectly 
 unconscious of it, but women commonly see some things 
 that a man does not even suspect are there. It was as if 
 she had followed my eyes and brought back the same 
 message that they brought to me. As I say, I had not 
 even been aware that Dorothy was in my line of vision. 
 It was uncanny, and Miss Bennett's next words did little 
 to quiet my nerves. 
 
 "But if you fall in love with her . . . you'll have 
 
 109 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 a tussle," she mimnured with complete dispasaon, almost 
 as if she was talking to herself. "You might much better 
 marry me. It would be easier." 
 
 Recalling that curious speech now, I am amazed that 
 I had not the least thought of an tmworthy motive behind 
 her words. She could not possibly have been so indiscreet 
 had she been in the slightest degree malicious. My 
 lanhostile reception of that remark was the greatest com- 
 pliment I could have accorded her. 
 
 The remainder of the evening wore away like a dream, 
 in which my figure was the most wraith-like. I listened, 
 and I suppose I talked — somewhat. I saw Dorothy only 
 once again, and that was in the flutter incident to the 
 breaking up of the party. 
 
 It was a queer trick of Fate that I should find myself 
 on the sidewalk beside Harrower. He made some remark 
 that I did not catch, and strode on as if my presence was 
 unworthy of further note. 
 
 "Queer lot there tonight, weren't they?" I said anaicably. 
 His only reply was a noncommittal nod. 
 
 "They bored me," I went on, refusing to submit to his 
 disdain. "How did they strike you?" He merely 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 I affected not to notice his indifference, and went on 
 talking in a strain which was not only a true expression 
 of my own thoughts, but must, I felt, find him in complete 
 accord. 
 
 no 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 "I'd rather watch a lot of trained seals!" I declared 
 vindictively. "I dislike to witness man, made in the 
 image of his Maker, demonstrating the foUy of creation. 
 It hurts my vanity. And did you ever see an odder crew 
 of females? That glacial sculptress . . . what was 
 her name? . . ." 
 
 "Hardinge-Jones." Harrower's tone seemed very 
 slightly warmer. 
 
 "Right. Hard . . , forgive the pun . . . but 
 she was like reinforced concrete!" I cried. "No wonder 
 she cuts marble. It must be like butter In her hands. 
 And the nonsense she talks . . . the bigger the words 
 the smaller the sense." 
 
 narrower turned and stared at me curiously. "I 
 thought you were one of those artist chaps yourself," he 
 said, almost suspiciously. 
 
 So that was it. I might have guessed as much. "Dear 
 no," I dismissed the canard. "I draw for a living, that's 
 all. I'm no artist." 
 
 "But I thought . . . Dorothy told me, you know 
 . . . that you had been in Paris • . . sort of, 
 well, forgive me . . . she didn't say it, but that's 
 the impression I got . . . idling your time away with 
 art . . . and all that sort of stuff. You're not 
 offended?" 
 
 I snuled pleasantly, and I tried to put a note of proper 
 humility into my voice. "You're quite right. I was 
 
 III 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 idling. The trouble with me was too much money. But 
 I'm all over that now. I want to get into a man's world, 
 and associate with men. I'm tired of the rotten twaddle 
 like they served up to us tonight. I . . ." 
 
 "Say," narrower interrupted me with the universal 
 American title of sentences. "Say — ^this is my comer. If 
 j'ou aren't sleepy, I , I'd — er — ^like to have you 
 
 come up to the rooms for a little chat. I've got some 
 good Bourbon and smokes." There was an entirely new 
 note in his voice. 
 
 I was delighted, and I said so. My little ruse, if you 
 covild call it that, had worked splendidly. Harrower had 
 apparently capitulated, and he seemed positively anxious 
 to talk to me further along the lines I had indicated. His 
 invitation was very welcome. I followed him into the 
 apartment house in which he made his home. 
 
 His rooms were just what I expected. A piano, with 
 the latest popular hits piled on top. "Art," represented 
 by Whistler's "Mother," Reynold's "Age of Innocence," 
 Hals' "Laughing Cavalier," Rembrandt's "Anatomy," — 
 and similarly worthy, but painfully trite subjects. Each 
 one was surrounded by a respectful retinue of photographs 
 — mostly of men, be it said to his credit — ^and the usual 
 gathering of "heads" by Harrison Fisher, Christie, and the 
 rest of the journeymen illustrators. There was a refresh- 
 ing absence of the "art gems" commonly supposed to adorn 
 
 iia 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 bachelor apartments; and no signed photographs of 
 wickedly lovely coryphSes. 
 
 My impression of Harrower as a clean cut, if slightly 
 dull young man, was borne out by a brief inspection of the 
 books on his table. It has always been a notion of mine 
 that a man is much better judged by the books he keeps, 
 than by the friends; for in books there is an absence of 
 the motives that play so large a part in all human relation- 
 ships. Let me see a man's library, and I feel that I can 
 attain a rather accurate estimate of what he is. 
 
 Harrower's books were a demonstration of his total 
 freedom from pose. The average library table is an indi- 
 cation of the reverse. People who buy books because 
 they are talked about, and to "keep up," inevitably place 
 their heaviest ordnance where it wiU command the 
 widest sweep. Their boudoirs may be littered with 
 Bertha Clay and that paper-covered fraternity which 
 some one has said should bear the sign of the olden inns 
 — "Entertainment within for man and beast"; but down- 
 stairs Bergson and James will dispute with Maeterlinck 
 in vicarious maintenance of sham, while Dickens and 
 Thackeray repose in impressive desuetude behind their 
 dignified half-morocco. 
 
 Harrower's books told his story frankly. E. Phillips 
 Oppenheim, open and face down, lay candidly beside a 
 well worn copy of Hadley's "Economics." A small 
 volttme entitled "Orchestral Instruments" disputed place 
 
 "3 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 with a large pile of popular magazines; while in a rack on 
 the other side were "A History of Railroading," "The 
 Rise of the French Nation," "Reconstruction and the 
 Constitution," "The Three Musketeers," "A Dictionary 
 of Poetical Quotations," "The Song of Songs," "Practical 
 Accounting," "Famous Indian Chiefs," "Efficient Sales- 
 manship," and "The Enjoyment of Art," by Carleton 
 Noyes. It was a curiously purposeless jumble, but 
 entirely characteristic of any man. A library table that 
 is otherwise than purposeless is apt to indicate either a 
 narrow mind, or the mind of a careful poseur. Harrower's 
 tastes, if perhaps untutored, were certainly not devoid 
 of catholicity. I picked up the little book on art. 
 
 "This is a good thing: don't you find it so?" I asked. I 
 had read it casually, and found it an excellent exposition 
 of aesthetic fundamentals. I was rather curious to know 
 why Harrower was reading it, and what there was in it 
 for him. His reply was almost apologetic. 
 
 "It has a lot of good stuff in it," he said, "but it didn't 
 answer the questions I hoped it would. Noyes doesn't 
 talk a bit like that crowd tonight. You see . . ." 
 He dropped into a chair and fell to opening the whiskey 
 bottle. "Dorothy — she seems to find something in those 
 sort of people, and I wanted to find out what it was. She 
 used to treat me . . . good Lord! she does now 
 . . . as a rather nice, stupid little boy, whenever the 
 subject of art came up. And it made me sore. I thought 
 
 114 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 I'd find out what all this art stuff was about. But I gUess 
 I'll have to get some more books," he finished dismally. 
 "I couldn't make head or tail out of that twaddle tonight. 
 Here — ^the soda's in that cupboard beside you." 
 
 It was rather curious. Here was Harrower coming to 
 me for advice on precisely the same terms as I had gone 
 to Miss Bennett. So I felt justified in plagiarizing quite 
 shamelessly. 
 
 "Your books on art won't enable you to talk the lan- 
 guage of those people. You don't need to know much 
 about art . , . What you've got to learn is how to 
 talk. Art's just the excuse for conversation. Contem- 
 plate yourself more . . . acquire a temperament, 
 if you can . . . memorize some good bits . . . 
 and you'll be ready to vie with the best of them !" 
 
 But my suggestions failed to satisfy him, that was 
 plain. And his next words showed me why. His diffi- 
 culty was not an abstract one ... it was very 
 keenly personal. I could have screamed at the irony of 
 the situation. 
 
 "I wish I could get Dorothy Gresham away from that 
 outfit," he sighed with ill-concealed bitterness. "She's 
 simply hipped on the subject of culture . . , and I 
 bore her to death! I've gone to the Thomas Concerts 
 regularly, and tried my damnedest to learn the difference 
 between a fugue and a cantata, and I've almost memorized 
 those miserable program notes, so that I could at least 
 
 "5 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING , 
 
 look as if I had a brain beside that water-spined pup 
 Bartolo. But it's no use. She's got me catalogued as 
 hopelessly without culture . . . and I guess she's 
 right. I've worn my shoes out chasing through the Art 
 Institute, and I've wasted all kinds of time trying to 
 leam to talk intelligently about what I see. But every 
 time I get nervy and throw a bouquet at something I've 
 doped out is about O. K., I get the lifted eye-brow, and a 
 pained look as much as to say, 'Well, never mind, little 
 boy, you'll learn.' Hang it all, Chandos, I can't seem to 
 get the system! If I put as much effort into playing the 
 gee-gees I'd be a millionaire. But I can't put over this 
 art stuff ... I get the double cross every deal!" 
 
 I tried to lead him on in the direction he had taken, but 
 he switched back, with galling perversity, to the very 
 subject I was most anxious to avoid. 
 
 "You know Dorothy well . . . what a ripping fine 
 girl she is. What do you think of her chumming with 
 these long haired men and short haired women? I'm not 
 thinking only of myself — (what a stupendous falsehood!) 
 Think what would happen if she was to run off and marry 
 one of 'em — Bartolo, for example. Why in thimder can't 
 she stay with her own kind, instead of playing with a lot 
 of human phonographs? I hope you won't mind my say- 
 ing it, but, well — ^the fact is — I — er — ^had a sort of notion 
 you were a bird of the same feather yourself. I'm mighty 
 glad to find out you aren't. Between us we ought to be 
 
 ii6 
 
NEAR-BOHEMIA 
 
 able to caie Dorothy of this fad of her's, don't you think? 
 It's nothing more than a fad . . . I'm sure of that." 
 
 I nodded my head in complete acquiescence, the while I 
 marvdled at Harrower's amazing revelation of self. I 
 suppose he felt that I could not ^thorn the personal 
 interest that lay behind his laudable desire to rescue 
 Dorothy from the enervating atmosphere of sham that 
 surrounded her; but it made me feel very uncomfortable. 
 I seemed to be receiving confidences under the falsest of 
 false pretenses, but for the life of me I saw no way to 
 check the flow of his conversation- Finally I managed 
 to divert hrm a trifle by picking up the "Economics" on 
 the table, and making some observation concerning it. 
 
 "Oh, that," Harrower's voice was bitter. "I thought a 
 chap in business ought to know something about general 
 business fundamentals, so I thought I'd brush up in my 
 economics." 
 
 But I could not keep his mind from its first channel. 
 "Dorothy kicks at my never having anything to say for 
 mjreelf," he sighed wearily. "But when I talk about the 
 only things I know, I bore her. She calls me sordid 
 . . . in a nice way, you know . . . but she means 
 it just the same. I sometimes think it's her very niceness 
 that gets my goat so. She seems to have such a forbearing 
 Christian tolerance for the mere filthy business of getting 
 money. But here . . . I'm ^aid I'm ending up 
 by borii^ you, too. That seems to be my fate!" 
 
 117 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 I protested . . . and with perfect sincerity . . . 
 that such was far from the case. But my self-respect 
 would permit of my staying no longer to hear his unguarded 
 confessions, and so, after a few desultory remarks on 
 things in general, I bade him good-night. His assurances 
 of regard, as I left, were meant cordially, I have no doubt, 
 but somehow or other, they rather hurt. I had a pre- 
 science of the pain I was to be the involvmtary means of 
 inflicting upon him. 
 
 I tried to salve my conscience by assuring myself that 
 he and Dorothy were essentially unsuited to each other; 
 but I realized perfectly that all such assurances were 
 casuistry, pure and simple. My arguments, however, 
 resulted satisfactorily enough, and for the remainder of 
 the journey home I was able to whistle quite jauntily. 
 
 It was not until I stood in the hall-way of my boarding 
 house, surrounded by the mocking ghosts of coimtless 
 cabbages, my shadow wavering dimly in the dismal gas- 
 Hght, that gloom clutched at my heart like the hand of a 
 grim, relentless giant. 
 
 ii8 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 TEN STRIKE 
 
 I SUPPOSE habit is the least valued blesang we have 
 . . . but how ghastly would life be without it. 
 Every man, I think, beginning work, experiences more 
 or less suffering. But in most cases, work has always been 
 in the most natural sequence of events. It does not 
 present itself as an inconceivable catastrophe, to be under- 
 gone, with a fierce sense of injustice, as one imdergoes a 
 cataclysm of nature. It is simply a matter of getting 
 used to the yoke . . . and then a more or less equable 
 straining at the load, until death presents discharge papers. 
 Each novice into the fraternity of toil has the experi- 
 ence of his father and brothers, his friends and intimates, 
 to draw upon. He has behind him the collective inspira- 
 tion of his community, the commendation of his women 
 folk. Even in his darkest hours he can look about him, 
 and see the initiate in satisfactory enjoyment of their 
 faculties. Life, if not quite rosy, is certainly not the 
 unrelieved indigo of his own. When his heart grows 
 faint with its burden these things give him courage to 
 struggle onward. And then, almost without realizing it, 
 he becomes accustomed to it all . . . work becomes 
 
 119 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 a habit . . . and he cannot go back to irresponsibility 
 if he would. 
 
 My own case had no such compensations. Working 
 for one's daily bread had always appeared to me as thor- 
 oughly reasonable and right for those that had to; but in 
 no way applicable to myself. The necessity for toil came, 
 therefore, as a shock whose extent I cannot hope to express. 
 "Getting on" had never struck me as other than an 
 academically slang phrase. Developing a conception of 
 the cosmos had appeared as my prime function in life 
 . , . and intelligent pursuit of happiness. Even now, 
 when I may call m3rself a toiler among toilers, when my 
 notions of life are as earthly as close contact with reality 
 can make them, I am not prepared to reverse that early 
 faith. What was vague and instinctive, then, is firm and 
 concrete now — a matter of the head rather than the 
 heart. A man's chief . . . yes, his sole purpose in 
 life, is the pursuit of happiness. The only change in my 
 philosophy is in the method of attaining its end. 
 
 But in those early days as a toiler for hire, I had room 
 for few thoughts that were not of bitter revolt. That I, 
 the pure, ethereal flower of culture, the supremely edu- 
 cated, the philosophic, should be forced into the indignities 
 of an utter dependency upon my inferiors, kept my blood 
 boiling in never ending resentment. 
 
 It was the monotony of it all that hurt the most. After 
 the novelty of my surroimdings had vanished . . . 
 
 I20 
 
TEX STRIKE 
 
 which came quiddy, becaiise I was content with super- 
 fidalitks, and did not seek, as I have since learned to seek, 
 for the things that make the machinery go ... I 
 became supremely bored. The unrelieved tedium of 
 wretched drawing; the constant strife with clients, dis- 
 satisfied with what they were given, and totally incapable 
 of indicating what they wanted to be given; the petty 
 quaxrels and jealousies of those about me, into which I 
 was drawn as a cork in a whirlpool; the myriad unpleasant- 
 nesses with my employer ... I thought I should 
 go mad with the drudgery of it alL I felt as if I was held 
 fast in a net, that all my struggles only bound me faster. 
 Not a ray of hope came to me. 
 
 Traxler was a great source of wonderment to me in 
 those days. Completely without what we rather incor- 
 rectly call "education," he had somehow or other acquired 
 a philosophy of Kf e that was my constant envy. Nothing 
 — at least nothing that I ever knew of — could disturb his 
 mental equilibrium. "Call downs" from Keppy that 
 would have incited me to murder, seemed to affect him 
 no more than a breeze in spring. He had a coating of 
 philosophic grease that rendered him perfectly impervious 
 to any rain of denunciation whatsoever. 
 
 It was not that he lacked spirit, either. "Let him 
 holler," he would say comfortably when I remonstrated 
 with htm for his indifference to insult. "It shows him 
 up more than it does me. I've got a good job, and he 
 
 121 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 won't fire me as long as I let him bawl me out. What's 
 the use of getting sore?" And then he wovild proceed 
 to a discursive elaboration upon the virtues of resignation 
 for salaried men. These discussions invariably termi- 
 nated in the same way. Traxler would point out the 
 manifest errors in my rebellious attitude, and I would 
 reply resentfully with the charge that he had no ambition 
 . . . which was true. Whereat he, knowiag it was 
 true, would relapse into offended silence, and presently 
 turn to his never-absent book. Of readers I have known 
 many in my life, but for catholicity of taste I have never 
 known anyone remotely to compare with Traxler. His 
 range was due, however, not so much to elasticity of 
 interest, as to an unconquerable weakness for second- 
 hand book-stores. The only thing that surpasses my 
 marvel at the extent of his reading, is the amount that he 
 managed to forget. A fact, which when pointed out in 
 a moment of irritation, was disposed of in his own uniquely 
 philosophic way by the remark that "the head is like a 
 store-room. You can only get so much into it, and if you 
 can't forget, you'd pretty soon have to quit reading." A 
 conviction in which he remained unargumentatively 
 impregnable. 
 
 My status in the world had not changed in the slightest 
 after six months of aflSliation with the Keppy Company, 
 in spite of my optimistic calculations. And as far as I 
 could see, there was no prospect of a change for years 
 
 122 
 
TEN STRIKE 
 
 to come. And then, quite without warning, as if to con- 
 found my dismal augury, came the change. 
 
 I was sitting at my table, one morning, gazing stupidly 
 at the hideous blankness of the wall facing our windows, 
 when Keppy, in his usual masterful manner, entered our 
 "studio." Ordinarily, mindful of the insecurity of salaried 
 lives, I would have endeavored to present an appearance 
 of tremendous industry; for Keppy was one of those 
 ignorant slave-drivers who feel that an artist may be 
 handled precisely as one might handle track-layers, and 
 that any time wasted by staring out of windows, was, all 
 sophistry to the contrary, stealing the good money he 
 paid out for salaries. But on this particular morning, 
 having had a particularly tmsavory breakfast, and suffer- 
 ing from a species of mental dyspepsia in addition, I was 
 frankly rebellious. I went on calmly staring out of the 
 window. 
 
 But to my great surprise, Keppy seemed not to notice 
 my naisbehavior. "Say," he breathed hurriedly, "Can 
 you write?" 
 
 Acknowledgment of an inability of any sort is tem- 
 peramentally abhorrent to me. It conveys an admission 
 of inferiority. And furthermore, I had been in the busi- 
 ness world long enough to realize its inexpediency. So I 
 admitted that I could write. 
 
 "Well," he said, "All the copy men are busy on that 
 Manning-Steele campaign, and it has to get off tonight. 
 
 123 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 And now that damned Gresham concern calls up for a 
 booklet they say has got to get to the printer by this after- 
 noon. What their rush is God only knows, but they 
 swear they've got to have it. And we're not strong 
 enough over there to give them a chance to tie a can to 
 us . . . they'd be only too glad of an excuse. And I 
 can't do it because I've got a conference with Marvin on 
 for this afternoon," he rattled on incoherently. I stopped 
 him with a wave of my hand. The thought had suddenly 
 "Jashed through my mind that if I could handle this task 
 efficiently it might result in increased remuneration for 
 my services. 
 
 "Just what do they want?" I asked casually, as if the 
 task was the simplest one in the world. 
 
 Keppy looked at me narrowly. "You're sure you can 
 get away with it?" he asked, a trifle dubiously, "They're 
 a damned particular lot — ^you can't put over much bunk, 
 you know!" 
 
 I denied the implication with another wave of the hand. 
 "I can't do more than try," I said bravely. And Keppy, 
 without further parley, sat down to explain what was 
 wanted. 
 
 I could have laughed as he unfolded the matter. With 
 what coincidences the gods delight to amuse themselves! 
 As he talked of the Gresham Company's sudden plan to 
 forestall an intimated competition in Champagnated 
 Grape Juice, by putting their product at once on the 
 
 124 
 
TEN STRIKE 
 
 market, my thoughts were busy recalling two weeks that 
 I had spent, during the previous summer, in the vicinity 
 of Rheims. While his tongue rattled rapidly over distri- 
 bution and dealer-influence and what not jargon, I was 
 thinking vividly of the warm beauty of the fields of Cham- 
 pagne. Finally he got up. 
 
 "Got the dope, do you think?" he asked. 
 
 And I, with my memory wandering in those blessed, 
 care-free days in France, merely smiled. But that seemed 
 to satisfy him and he left me, with what was doubtless 
 intended as an encouraging slap on the shoulder. 
 
 Had almost any other task of a similar nature been 
 given me, I am sure that I would have made a dismal 
 failure of it. But as if to compensate for my normal 
 inefficiency, Providence had generously selected me for 
 work that no one else in the office could possibly do as 
 welL It was with a light heart that I filled my fountain 
 pen and set about the task. 
 
 "Why don't you dictate it?" asked Brega, who had 
 overheard Keppy's conversation. It was on the tip of 
 my tongue to explain that none of the stenographers 
 would be able to write the words I intended to use — ^what 
 a snob I was! — ^but I changed my resolution. . . . 
 Without another word I put by my pen and pushed the 
 button that would summon a stenographer. 
 
 She came promptly, her note-book in her hand. Then 
 a thought struck me. "Let's go into Mr. Keppy's office," 
 
 125 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 I said. "This is going to be a long job, and we'll need quiet." 
 Silently she followed me, and there was no conversation 
 between us, other than concerning the work in hand. 
 Simply dressed, but with uncommon neatness, she pre- 
 sented a figure of competency that was a stimulus to me. 
 I felt that she looked upon me with a certain tolerance, 
 and it spurred me on to prove my own ability. In the 
 particular matter before us, I felt that I had the oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 All through the day, with only a short pause for 
 luncheon, we worked steadily. The Gresham Company 
 I forgot. I forgot that I was working for the Keppy 
 Company. I forgot that what I was doing was mere 
 advertising. With my eyes closed, I talked, as one would 
 recount an adventure to a friend. Simply, graphically, 
 without being in the least conscious of effort, I told the 
 story of champagne, of the days of unalloyed delight that 
 I had spent strolling with a friend through the vineyards 
 about Rheims. Occasionally the stenographer called for 
 the repetition of a word, but for the most part her pencil 
 moved unflaggingly after my thought. Finally, about 
 three o'clock, I left her to type the completed work. 
 
 In the reaction after the concentration of the task, I 
 went back to my table, and fell idly to sketching. My 
 thoughts naturally remained on what I had been doing, 
 and without quite realizing it, I drew simple little pen and 
 inks of scenes in Champagne — ^the Cathedral of Rheims, 
 
 126 
 
TEN STRIKE 
 
 Lavoissier and I wandering in the vineyards, a sentry 
 sunning himself by the roadside, an interior of a cham- 
 pagne cave . . . extremely careless little bits that 
 served to pass the time until the stenographer could bring 
 me the final draft of the brochure itself. 
 
 She came in presently, but I had become so engrossed 
 in my idling that I failed to recognize her presence until 
 she spoke. "Those are splendid, Mr. Chandos," she said. 
 "You're going to use them for marginal decorations, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 Such a thought had never so much as entered my head. 
 But without the slightest hesitation I admitted that such 
 was my intention . . , How inglorious do we males 
 become in the presence of feminine superiority! 
 
 Any further discussion of the sketches was interrupted 
 by the entrance of Keppy himself, with loud-voiced inquiry 
 as to the state of the work, and with very obvious aston- 
 ishment at learning that it was completed. With a 
 characteristic rudeness that, never failed to irritate me, 
 though I should long since have become accustomed to 
 it, he snatched the manuscript from the stenographer, and 
 glanced over it. His perusal was punctuated by an 
 unintelligible running fire of comment — ^whether of praise 
 or otherwise, I was unable to determine. Finally he 
 threw the sheets down, so that several fell on the floor. 
 
 "Well . . . that's damned fuimy stuff, but I 
 guess itil have to do now. They haven't any right to 
 
 127 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 expect an3rthing better. Ought to have known better 
 than to call for such stuff without any notice. I hope we 
 can get away with it. Give it to the kid and get it right 
 over to Gresham. The old duffer's waiting for it." And 
 with that he stalked grimly out of the little room, leaving 
 me to face the stenographer. 
 
 My face must have exhibited the chagrin and humilia- 
 tion I felt; for she gave way to an instantly repressed 
 smile. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Chandos — but — " 
 
 "Miss Westcott," I said very severely, "you started 
 to laugh because I looked like a whipped puppy. I don't 
 blame you for laughing at me . . . but I do blame 
 you for being so cruel as to see anything funny in the 
 whipping of puppies!" 
 
 She was all contrition. "Really, Mr. Chandos . . . 
 I'm awfully sorry. Truly I am. But . . ." she 
 giggled tmcontrollably, "you did look such a queer com- 
 bination of . . ." she laughed again as she went out. 
 
 128 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 "WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 I WAS sitting, one morning, some days later, in placid 
 contemplation of the view from my window, when 
 little Morris appeared, and with his usual contemp- 
 tuous brevity announced that the boss wanted me. These 
 peremptory summonses to the throne — ^usually for censure 
 of some sort — ^irritated me immensely. They were a 
 constant evidence of my subordination. Perhaps that 
 is what they were designed for . . . 
 
 "Sit down, Mr. Chandos," said Keppy curtly, when 
 I entered his ofiSce. "I want to talk to you. It's about 
 that booklet you wrote up for the Gresham people." I ' 
 nodded, wondering what was coming. "Well, I just got 
 a call from old Gresham himself. He said he wanted to 
 see the chap that wrote the stuff. Damn it, Chandos — 
 I oughtn't to have let you monkey with it !" He surveyed 
 me balefully for a moment, and I endeavored to recipro- 
 cate the disfavor. "I tried to make him let me come over 
 and talk to him," he went on, "but he insisted on you. 
 Now you'll have a ticldish job getting things smoothed 
 over, and I want to tell you what to do." 
 
 It was characteristic of Keppy never to let his subor- 
 dinates feel that they did — or could do — anything on their 
 
 129 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 own initiative. And when, as was inevitable in the 
 majority of instances, they did do things satirfactorily 
 without assistance from him, he managed to convey the 
 impression that he was really the inspiration. I never 
 ceased to marvel at the success with which the man per- 
 suaded his underlings of his all-importance. It was only 
 when things went wrong tihat he completely disclaimed 
 all responsibility, and caused the author of the catastrophe 
 to fed a deep and abiding sense of shame. This attitude 
 was indeed ingenious; it was very helpful when a raise 
 in salary was demanded, to be able to recount with sorrow, 
 almost with indignation, the blunders of which the appli- 
 cant had been the impimished author. The poor creature 
 was likely to leave the august presence not only without 
 the wished-for "raise," but actually rejoicing that his 
 poor wages had not been reduced. I realized perfectly 
 well, therefore, Keppy's purpose in putting the aitire 
 responsibility for the Gresham brochure on my shoulders. 
 lAy blood simmered as he went on. 
 
 "Don't let on that you're not a copy writer. You 
 might tell him that you're the $io,cxx) man I was speaking 
 to him about." He grinned unpleasantly. I had heard 
 before of Keppy's mendacity r^arding the salaries he paid, 
 but this unblushing avowal disgusted me. "Tell hitn 
 that we've been giving a lot of consideration in our con- 
 ferences to his business." (This "conference" falsehood 
 was one of Keppy's successful tricks with gullible dients. 
 
 130 
 
"WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 Each one was made to feel that his particular afiEairs were 
 the constant study of a gathering of "experts.") "Admit, 
 of course," Keppy went on, "that the booklet you got up 
 was something new, but make him think that you've 
 been lyin' awake nights thinking about it." He grinned 
 ^ain. "You've simply got to keep that account, Chan- 
 dos. We can't afford to lose it. Make all the promises 
 you want, and don't be afraid of using your imagination. 
 You can't be squeamish in this business, you know. 
 Gresham bilks the public, and we bilk him. That's busi- 
 ness. You understand what I mean, I guess. Do any- 
 thing you like, but keep that account. You've simply 
 got to do it. Understand?" His meaning was unmis- 
 takable. 
 
 "I understand perfectly, Mr. Keppy," I said with a 
 coldness that was quite lost upon him. And as I went 
 out my heart was filled with unutterable disgust. Keppy 
 was a tangible defense for all my aversion to "business." 
 
 Sincerity is the soul of art, and I had dallied with the 
 arts long enough to become sincere. The apparent lack 
 of honor or candor or sincerity of any sort in the ways of 
 commerce filled me, therefore, with righteous hatred. But 
 it was an aesthetic, intellectual anger, not in the least a 
 matter of morality. It was the artist in me that revolted 
 at the devious practices of Keppy and his ilk. No one 
 follows art, in any true sense, save for the art itself; but 
 everyone that I knew in business was following business, 
 
 131 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 frankly, as a means, not an end. They strove with might 
 and main at one thing — ^to get money for other things; 
 and however accustomed they might become to the yoke 
 of circumstance, labor, in itself, never ceased to be essen- 
 tiaJly a chore. In the lower classes, exploited In a hope- 
 less, monotonous grind, toil was a means of sustenance, 
 solely. Their hate was imderstandable. But with the 
 so-called upper classes work was but a means to the pur- 
 chase of luxury and pleasures quite removed from the 
 sphere in which their wealth arose. In this attitude 
 toward the accumulation of wealth seems to lie the ex- 
 planation of the at-times incomprehensible differences 
 between a man's private life and morality, and the life 
 he leads in business. It explains why Keppy was a de- 
 voted husband and father, the patron of numerous 
 charities, the generous friend — ^when at the same time he 
 was utterly unscrupulous in his dealings with his equals, 
 and remorselessly tyrannical over the weak and helpless 
 who had been forced by conditions beyond their control 
 to subjugate themselves to his will. The crudest stealing, 
 under the plea of "business," and the noblest rectitude in 
 private life were quite within the inconsistencies of his 
 tuiformulated philosophy. 
 
 My mind was filled with this bewildering paradox on 
 the long ride out to the factory of the Gresham Food 
 Products Company. But as I sat waiting for an oppor- 
 tunity to enter the office of its president, my thoughts 
 
 132 
 
■'WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 reverted to the strange trick that fortune was playing. I 
 wondered if Mr. Gresham would guess that he was talking 
 to John Chandos' son. And I wondered if Dorothy had 
 mentioned me to him. The only thing I did not think 
 about at all was my mission. 
 
 I stopped, momentarily tongue-tied, when I first faced 
 Mr. Gresham. I did not know then that most men were 
 thus affected. He merely looked at me, not so much 
 coldly as impersonally. Not a muscle of his face moved. 
 
 Recovering, I stated my name and my business. An 
 almost imperceptible movement of his hand indicated a 
 chair, and I seated myself. 
 
 "I see," he said, after a momentary pause. "You're the 
 man, then, who wrote this booklet." He fell to drum- 
 ming thoughtfully on the desk with his pencil, whUe I 
 studied him. He had a curious face — ^not easily classified. 
 My glance began at his chiti — square, aggressive, firm 
 — and then went to the mouth. Its lips were neither 
 thick nor thin, but the little droop at the comers gave an 
 impression of grimness that was borne out by the dose- 
 cropped gray mustache above. The nose was large, 
 sharply cut, and yet not aquiline. Then I reached his 
 eyes . . . and stopped. They were deep set and 
 bright, tmder a broad forehead, marked only by a little 
 vertical furrow in the centre. I could not tell whether 
 the glint in his eyes betokened mere hardness, or the 
 twinkle of potential humor, but I knew that equivocation 
 
 133 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 was hopeless with them upon me. Then, suddenly the 
 whole character of his expression changed, and he smiled 
 very pleasantly. 
 
 "It is different from an3rthing that we have ever had 
 . . • but quite the best thing, too. We are going to 
 issue it in a de luxe edition for high dass consumer dis- 
 tribution. It is a really splendid piece of work, Mr. 
 Chandos . . , remarkably priginal. I asked Mr. 
 Keppy to have you come out here because I wished to 
 compliment you personally." 
 
 "Thank you very much," I said stupidly. My botUe- 
 versement was too complete for words. "Thank you," I 
 murmured again for want of anything better to say. A 
 faint smile played over his face, like a flare of summer 
 lightning, and vanished. Abruptly he proceeded. 
 
 "Next to the text, the illustrations impressed me 
 greatly. They are vastly removed from the general run 
 of advertisement illustration. Really artistic. Who 
 did them?" 
 
 I. think I must have blushed. I never felt more utterly 
 at a loss for poise than I did at that moment. "I did," 
 I managed to stammer, faintly. There was just a sugges- 
 tion of surprise in his eyes, and he hesitated a moment 
 before speaking again. 
 
 "Is that so? Well ... I must congratulate you 
 doubly, then, Mr. Chandos." 
 
 "I happen to have spent some time in Champagne 
 134 
 
"WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 . . . and so — you see — I can draw a little . . . 
 and so ..." I was trying hard to bear out Keppy's 
 instructions. But I must have made a woeful botch of it. 
 
 "Been with the Keppy people long?" Gresham asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Nearly a year," I confessed with a dreariness that I 
 could not wholly conceal. He noted it, too. 
 
 "Not entirely satisfied, eh?" And without waiting 
 for my reply, he added, half inaudibly, "None of us 
 ever is!" 
 
 There seemed nothing more to be said, so I rose to 
 leave. Mr. Gresham shook hands with me pleasantly, 
 assured me again of his satisfaction with the work I had 
 done for him, and we parted. I left feeling very well 
 satisfied with the report that I would be able to give my 
 employer. Keppy would of course assume all the credit, 
 but he could not, I reflected exultantly, take away my 
 own personal satisfaction. 
 
 I was in no hurry to retimi to the office, so I dallied in 
 the vicinity of the Gresham Company's factory. I never 
 had outings, save on Sundays, and I scarcely knew what 
 the city looked like on working days. 
 
 The plant of the Gresham Company sprawled aim- 
 lessly over an entire block, as if part after part had been 
 added, with no definite plan of arrangement. The only 
 uniformity apparent was in the dismal, weather-beaten 
 red of the buildings. I sat down on a near-by fence to 
 
 135 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 enjoy the unaccustomed Ivtxury of a cigarette, and to 
 survey the equally unaccustomed scene. 
 
 It was a scene of unadulterated ugliness. There was 
 not a growing thing visible, and the very atmosphere 
 seemed to be swimming in soot. The streets were im- 
 paved, the sidewalks little more than ditches filled with 
 cinders. To one side a locomotive stood belching smoke, 
 and coughing intermittently at the indignity of its posi- 
 tion. There was scarcely a human being to be seen, 
 except a steady stream of men pushing trucks into a freight 
 car beside a loading platform. 
 
 Near where I sat a couple of unspeakably filthy infants 
 were playing apathetically; but otherwise the streets were 
 empty. Painted, the scene would give an impression of 
 absolute quiet. But actually, the air was filled with noise 
 — the raucous scream of machinery, the sudden sharp 
 crashes, the hissing and occasional expostulation of the 
 switch-engine, the rumble of the constantly toiling trucks 
 — all the cacophony of industry. It was a picture that made 
 me almost rejoice at my own position. I was at least 
 surrounded by noble architecture — "down-town." There 
 was life about me . . . and life not whoUy given 
 over to the sole purpose of winning bread. Pleasure — 
 even joyous vice — ^was on all sides of me. But here 
 . . . what a dismal, hopeless spectacle it was. 
 
 I looked again at the two Uttle lu-chins crawling in the 
 sun — alone — their parents doubtless shut up in one of 
 
 136 
 
"WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 the grim buildings about me, wearing out youth and hope 
 and beauty — life itself — ^for what? To bring more 
 imwished-for children into the world . . . just to 
 live. Never before had I realized with such force the 
 power of the simple wiU-to-live. As I sat there in reflec- 
 tion, I wondered what there was in life to make those 
 miserable toilers struggle on to keep it. No enjoyment 
 of the present ... no hope for the future . . . 
 and yet they did struggle. Once more I looked at the 
 little creatures who would some day carry on the burden. 
 Little proletarians in the making. Dirty they were 
 now, but still sharing in' the inalienable birthright of all 
 babies. Some day they would be bent and broken, ugly 
 in mind and body. That would be when they had felt 
 man's touch; but now, before they were quite out of God's 
 hands, they stiU bore something of divinity. 
 
 What a pity that we should aUow the beautiful gift of 
 life that comes to us all to flicker and die out. Why must 
 the piUng years be allowed to dull the edge of joy, until 
 existence becomes something merely endurable . . . 
 and finally death is the only thing to be looked for? Is 
 it the plan of things to so arrange life that by the time we 
 reach the curtain fall, we yawn, and are glad? Perhaps. 
 But I never look into the faces of the little children of the 
 poor without wondering at the Purpose that has made 
 them yawn before the overture is ended. Life is long 
 
 137 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 enough for most of us, but why should little eyes be dimmed 
 with pain so early? 
 
 These were strange thoughts that filled my mind as I 
 sat idly dangling my legs upon a fence before the plant 
 of the Gresham Food Products Company. Never before 
 had the thought of altruism entered my mind. Poverty 
 had been a vague Something, designed by the Creator 
 when he designed' Hell and Heaven and Hunger and 
 Death, and aU the other immutables, for inscrutable pur- 
 poses of His own. The Scriptural assurances of the per- 
 manence of poverty I had accepted without question. It 
 was necessary that some people be poor, precisely as it 
 was necessary that some people have red hair. Why, is 
 no concern of ours. And it had seemed well-nigh blas- 
 phemous to venture to change the express arrangements 
 of God himself. If He had not wanted poverty, He would 
 not have made it possible. That was my comfortable 
 reflection . . . when I gave the subject any con- 
 sideration whatsoever. 
 
 It was my own poverty, I suppose, that really first 
 brought home to me the significance of poverty . . . 
 the reality of it, the horror of it. I did not know what it 
 was to be hungry . . . but I had been near enough 
 to the brink to be able to shiver without affectation at the 
 possibility. Poverty, as seen through clearer eyes, took 
 on less of the aspect of divine carelessness, and more of 
 human cruelty. I came rapidly from merely regretting 
 
 138 
 
"WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 it, to bitterly resenting it. I who had once looked sin- 
 cerely upon "Socialists," and all critics of the established 
 order of things, as "dangerous" people, now began to look 
 upon them with equal sincerity, as brothers in a common 
 cause. As I looked at those miserable children, grubbing 
 dirtily in the road, I felt my fists clench at the hideous 
 wrong, the pitiful injustice of any system, however long 
 established, that would enable man legally thus to ex- 
 ploit his fellows. Then, as if to put an exclamation point 
 to the rising pitch of my thoughts, there came the long 
 wail of the noon whistle, and presently, like an ant hill 
 that has been stepped upon, the Gresham Company dis- 
 gorged its human contents. 
 
 I staid to watch them as they streamed by. The 
 largest proportion of them was of girls . . . young, 
 most of them. The masculine contingent seemed of all 
 ages, from the bent old men in overalls, to boys in knicker- 
 bockers. The spirits of the crowd, too, seemed at vastly 
 different levels. The older ones — and some of the younger 
 who had perhaps lived faster than their contemporaries 
 — ^walked slowly and listlessly. But many of the others 
 were like hounds imleashed. In a twinkling, ball games 
 and quoits had sprung up in every vacant spot; and little 
 knots of girls had gathered for lunch, gossip and giggles 
 . . . much as their sisters in more elevated sections of 
 the commtmity would gather. The scene was animated — 
 even joyous — and for a little while the thoughts of the 
 
 139 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 moments before were banished. Then it came upon me 
 with a rush, that all this apparent happiness was but a 
 conscious effort . . . a glossing-over of grim realities. 
 Humanity wants to laugh — ^it has to laugh — ^and it will 
 laugh, no matter what the odds against it. But the 
 laughter of the wretched is the most tragic thing on earth. 
 
 I sat there and studied the faces as they passed. Even 
 the eyes that lit in smiles were dull at best. Flat-breasted, 
 sallow-cheeked women; round-shouldered, gaunt-featured 
 men. The similarity between the men and the women 
 impressed me strongly. It was as if their toil had unsexed 
 them both, bringing them ultimately to a hermaphroditic 
 stage where they were neither one thing nor the other 
 . . . just "working people." Harrower and Dorothy 
 and Keppy and Gresham, and I myself, won our varying 
 stipends in apparently different ways, but really, at bot- 
 tom, they came from the same source — ^humanity. These 
 wretched, feeble, Ignorant creatures, unhappy carica- 
 tures of Nature's intent . . . these were the Atlases 
 that bore the whole world on their bent shoulders. And 
 as I watched them trooping by, gay in spite of themselves, 
 and doubly pathetic for that reason, I fell to wondering 
 with Jules Gu&de — "How long, O Lord, will Thy children 
 suffer in silence?" 
 
 Strange thoughts, these, for the aimless son of a 
 multimillionaire, were they not? But it is neither tem- 
 
 140 
 
"WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 perament nor birth that makes a conservative — ^it is what 
 he has. And I had nothing at all! 
 
 "Well, young man, you certainly are a picture of innoc- 
 uous desuetude!" laughed a pleasant voice near me. I 
 turned quickly to confront a young woman smiling at me. 
 For a fraction of an instant, the sun being in my eyes, I 
 failed to recognize her . . . then I saw that it was 
 Dorothy Gresham. 
 
 "Hello," I said, not knowing anything better. "Been 
 out to see your father?" 
 
 "Yes and no. I came out with one of the girls who 
 visits the poor, and after I left her I went over to see 
 father for a moment." 
 
 "So you've been visiting the poor, have you?" I said 
 thoughtfully, with my mind still on the thoughts that had 
 filled it before Dorothy came. "Well, how do you like it?" 
 
 "Loathe it, of course," she replied cheerfully. 
 
 "What do you come out here for, then?" There was 
 thinly-veiled sarcasm in my tone. 
 
 "Something to do," she said wearily. "High-minded 
 motives may actuate some of our female philanthropists 
 — but I doubt it. Sheer boredom is the cause of most 
 of the charity I know — ^that is, charity of the social service 
 type." 
 
 "You mean these women read Scripture and bring 
 guava jelly to the poor instead of playing bridge?" 
 
 "I certainly do. Why picture to yourself the lives we 
 141 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 women lead. We're actually not as happy as the wretched 
 people we try to comfort. They at least have something 
 to do. They aren't condemned to fret their lives away 
 in idleness. They . . ." 
 
 I was dtimbfounded. This was a phase of Dorothy's 
 character that I had not even suspected. She sensed my 
 amazement, for her tone changed. 
 
 "I see I shock you. Let's change the subject. If 
 you're not too busy, I'd be glad to take you back to town. 
 Or are you waiting here for something momentotis to 
 turn up?" 
 
 "Far from it," I said, as I fell in beside her. "I've 
 merely been enjoying the sunshine. I'm on my way back 
 to the office now. But come now, Dorothy, I don't want 
 you to change the subject. I never dreamed you had 
 these ideas in you. You always struck me as an unusu- 
 ally well satisfied person. You — " 
 
 "Satisfied — and with what, pray?" she interrupted 
 truculently. " 'Society,' I suppose. Well, 'Society' is a 
 very necessary institution. It is the best matrimonial 
 exchange in the world. Beyond that . . . my intel- 
 lect may not be large, but it is far too large for any more 
 'Society,' thank you. I scurried about^with the best of 
 them, from luncheons to teas to balls and back again 
 around the circle for two dreary years after I came out. 
 Then I cut it for good. Some of my set stuck it out until 
 they married, and were allowed to stop. But most of 
 
 143 
 
"WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 them, even, have gone back — ^they found marriage wasn't 
 the jumping off place they thought it was. They still 
 had time to kill!" 
 
 "And those who don't indulge in society indulge in 
 altruism, eh?" 
 
 "Brutally put — ^yes. How much better off you men 
 are than we," she added thoughtfully. 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Work. You've got something to do. You don't 
 know what it is to be really bored." 
 
 "Well— why not work?" 
 
 "Can't. I can't write or paint or do fancy work, and 
 my ambitions to be a stenographer never received much 
 encouragement. And I was shipped off to Eiu^ope once 
 because I had expressed a violent determination to be a 
 trained ntirse. Men are so inconsistent," she added 
 irrelevantly. I begged her to explain the charge. 
 
 "Well, look at father. He seems perfectly willing to 
 have me waste my time playing at life until some properly 
 eligible young man can marry me. He doesn't seem to 
 see that I'm no longer the little girl he used to dandle on 
 his knee. And he forgets, too, that he's forever con- 
 demning the men who dance with me and take tea with 
 me, and call on me Sunday afternoons — ^the very men 
 I've got to get a husband from — ^because they don't work 
 as hard as he did. He's forever talking about the beauties 
 of work, but he can't seem to see that what's good for men 
 
 143 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 ought to be at least as good for women. He says the two 
 sexes are fundamentally different. I say they're not. 
 What do you think about it?" 
 
 "Making the best of necessity," said I, "I quite agree 
 that men should work. But women . . . frankly, 
 I don't know just what I think about that. If you had 
 asked me a year ago I could have told you readily enough, 
 I idealized women, then. I'm afraid I don't so much, 
 now!" 
 
 "That's just it," she cried vehemently. "We don't 
 want to be idealized . . . put away in cotton wool, 
 to be taken out and played with in leisure moments. But 
 what are we going to do? I remember once, in school, we 
 had a man chemistry teacher. For a while he treated me 
 like a boy, and I just loved him for it. He wasn't a bit 
 polite to me. He didn't say please, and aU that, and now 
 and then he was right rude. It was fine! Then someone 
 called his attention to his carelessness, and he became 
 polite and sweet to me . . . and I hated him ever 
 after! You men can't seem to understand that we want 
 to be treated as equals — not chattels or divinities, because 
 we aren't either one — ^but equals. But you go blundering 
 stupidly on, firmly convinced that you know what we 
 want, and what we ought to want. And in the meantime 
 we are condemned to misery without in the least knowing 
 how to get rid of it." 
 
 144 
 
"'WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 "You're a fine one to talk of misery," I said, thinking 
 of the wretched girls I had seen at noon time. 
 
 "Because I have an automobile and a fine home and 
 servants to wait upon me, I suppose? Well, wouldn't 
 you rather be a chimney swallow, able to fly wherever 
 you wanted to, than a canary in a lovely brass cage 
 . . . even if you didn't know where your next meal 
 was coming from? Well, I would. I tell you, Harlan, 
 it's a wonder to me that women in our class are as good as 
 they are . . . and they're not very good, either! 
 They haven't much else than mischief to busy themselves 
 with. What's the end of it all going to be? What is 
 going to be done with us daughters of the rich? Some of 
 us are miserable and know the cause, and some are miser- 
 able without knowing it. I, for one, know I'm miserable, 
 and I know why I'm niiserable. It's because I haven't 
 got a blessed thing to do but wait for the next day!" 
 
 I stopped and stared at her. "For the love of Heaven, 
 Dorothy, do I know you, or do I not? Are you the girl 
 I dined with on the edge of Parnassus, the female Mae- 
 cenas, the worshipper of the little gods of culture? What 
 in the world has come over you?" 
 
 "Did you ever get drunk?" she asked shortly. My 
 face must have expressed my astonishment at the ques- 
 tion, for she laughed and went on to explain. "Well, 
 that's the way I get drunk. When I can't stand the 
 monotony and emptiaess of my own life any longer, I gather 
 
 I4S 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 some people with brains — ^with tongues at least — ^and 
 intoxicate myself into a temporary forgetfulness of my 
 ennui. You don't suppose that that sort of thing could 
 fill anyone's life, do you?" 
 
 I was silent — absolutely nonplussed. I had thought 
 that I knew Dorothy Gresham, and I no more knew her 
 than one knows the butterfly from its cocoon. 
 
 "Well," I said finally, after a long pause. "How about 
 this social work? Surely that ought to occupy you — 
 and it is worthy enough." 
 
 Her face hardened. "Social work — empt3ang bathtubs 
 with a colander. It's so — ^how shall I put it? — &i footless. 
 It seems to me to be working at the wrong end of things. 
 We can make a few unhappy people moderately comfort- 
 able. But when they die we have to do it all over again. 
 You wouldn't like to paint if the whole thing faded away 
 with the last stroke. Social workers may feel that they 
 are doing a great deal of good, but it doesn't seem to me 
 that they are any better than the doctor who shoots 
 morphine into a patient he doesn't know how to cure. 
 The patient suffers: his comfort may cost him his life. 
 Social workers . . . Harlan — " her voice rose shghtly, 
 "I'll lose my temper if I talk any more about them. I 
 begin to think of concrete examples . . . Besides, 
 here's the car." 
 
 For some time we rode in complete silence. Dorothy 
 seemed to have become suddenly reticent — ^and I was 
 
 146 
 
"WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 quite unable to speak. No human being had ever sur- 
 prised me as thoroughly as she had. My thoughts were 
 chaos. She was the first to speak. 
 
 "Harlan," she said thoughtfully. You used to be a 
 dilettante by temperament and conviction. It seemed 
 to me — ^that night you came to dinner — ^that there were 
 signs of a change. Are you still? Would you return to 
 idleness if you could?" 
 
 There being no possibility of the sincerity of my reply 
 being called into question, I could answer quite promptly 
 in the negative. 
 
 "Do you really mean that?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "I wonder," she said musingly. "I wonder very much. 
 But tell me, what were you doing when I found you— 
 that is, if it's not a secret?" 
 
 "I was calling on your father. We handle his adver- 
 tising, as you may know." 
 
 "I didn't — because I never hear about business at home. 
 Dad doesn't believe in it. I couldn't understand, and all 
 that. But tell me — ^was he nice to you?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "He's rather fine, you know, Dad is — ^for all his obsti- 
 nate ways. But he can be nasty. I'm glad he wasn't to 
 you. But I'll bet you didn't stay long!" 
 
 "No, I didn't. But I should have liked to. I should 
 have liked to talk to him." 
 
 147 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "Dad doesn't waste many words, except when he's 
 home, with his pipe and his slippers. Then he's a dear. 
 Some night I'll have you up to dinner enfamUle and you 
 can see for yourself what father really is like. With his 
 shoes off he's an entirely different man." 
 
 The sudden stoppage of the motor, in obedience to a 
 traffic policeman's uplifted hand, recalled me to the fact 
 that this delightful ride, like all things delightful, must 
 have an end. 
 
 "If you'll let me oflE at the next comer, please," I mur- 
 mured regretfully. 
 
 She rapped on the window, the car slowed up and 
 stopped, and presently I was on the sidewalk. 
 
 "I have enjoyed this tremendously," I said as I left 
 her. 
 
 "Come up and see me occasionally, won't you?" she 
 called after me. "It will help me a lot." 
 
 I could only smile my assent. 
 
 I felt rather well content with myself as I came back to 
 the office, and even the dinginess of my surroundings was 
 not sufficient entirely to dampen my spirits. They fell 
 somewhat, of course, because the place inevitably affected 
 me as death always affects life. It was to me a sort of 
 morgue of dead hopes, not merely my own, but of numer- 
 ous predecessors. Nevertheless I was unwontedly cheer- 
 ful, so much so that even old Brega, who was customarily 
 monosyllabic, expressed some astonishment . . . His 
 
 148 
 
"WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 exact words were unintelligible, but I assume it was 
 astonishment. 
 
 Summer was in the air and in my heart. I could no 
 more apply myself to work than I could fly. In calm 
 defiance of Brega's curious glances, I lit my pipe, put my 
 feet on a chair and abandoned myself to pleasant if some- 
 what bewildered cogitation upon the day. 
 
 And then, like a bomb, a fragrant of my conversation 
 with Dorothy shattered my peace. 
 
 "Would I return to idleness if I could?" she had asked. 
 And I had denied the imputation. The reflection smote 
 me that her question was actually the first thing that had 
 put my changing self to the test of investigation. With- 
 out ever thinking much about it, I had made myself con- 
 tent in my misery, looking upon it as permanent and 
 irremediable. But was it? 
 
 I put the question squarely before myself. Suppose I 
 could chuck it aU, and go back to the old life in Paris — 
 be again the dilettante, the joy of the ateliers. Suppose 
 some beneficent deity made my return possible. Would 
 I go? 
 
 What I had told Dorothy half in jest, was the truth. 
 Work had mastered me. I was committed to the path 
 that Fate had started me upon. There was no tumiag 
 back. I felt an actual, poignant sense of loss over the 
 days, the character, that was no more. The future was 
 dark, perhaps — ^but the past was closed; and I had no 
 
 149 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 choice left. It was with an acute sense of subjection, as 
 if I had actually put a heavy yoke about my neck, pad- 
 locked it with my own hands . . . and then thrown 
 away the key . . . that I answered Keppy's sum- 
 mons. 
 
 "Well," he said, when I entered his office, "What's the 
 big word?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" I understood his meaning well 
 enough, but it pleased me to feign ignorance of slang. 
 
 "What happened? . . . How did you come out with 
 Gresham?" he snapped impatiently. I restrained my 
 ever-present wrath, and spoke quietly. 
 
 "Oh ... he congratulated — us on the booklet, 
 said it was fine — and they're going to put it out in a de 
 luxe edition." There must have been an expression of 
 triumph on my face, but if there was, Keppy apparently 
 failed to notice it. 
 
 "The devil you say!" he exploded, quite as if the good 
 news disappointed him keenly. "Stu'e he wasn't kidding 
 you? He's a queer card, that Gresham." 
 
 "No. He said it was very different from anything 
 they had ever done before, but he liked it none the less. 
 I think the account is perfectly safe. 
 
 A year should have accustomed me to lightning changes 
 of base on Keppy's part. But a feather would have 
 bowled me over at his next words. A slow smile melted 
 his harsh features. "I knew that booklet was good stuff, 
 
 ISO 
 
"WORKING PEOPLE"— AND A SURPRISE 
 
 but I was afraid he wouldn't have the sense to see it. He's 
 pretty conservative — and that was so original." And 
 then, as a concession to the disgust on my face, which I 
 made no efEort to conceal, he added, "I didn't tell you how 
 good I thought it was, because I didn't want you to get 
 a swelled head. You young fellows are apt to do some- 
 thing good by accident, and then you think you're all 
 get-out. Besides I was afraid you might tell the other 
 copy men, and they'd get jealous. They're such a tem- 
 peramental lot, anyhow, you know. Well, by Jove, I 
 certainly am glad Gresham saw how good it was . . . 
 It certarnly was too good for him. Enthusiastic, was he, 
 eh? Wouldn't kick at a pretty fair bill, d'ye think?" 
 
 "I haven't the slightest idea," I said coldly, though my 
 blood was boiling. 
 
 "Well, if he thought enough of it to call you out there 
 to tell you about it, he must have been pretty pleased, all 
 right, all right. He ought to be willing to pay for what he 
 likes. Oh — ^by the way — ^he didn't say anything about 
 your signatvire, did he?" 
 
 "Signatiure? Why — ^what do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, I stuck your name on the thing. Thought it'd 
 be a nice ad for you, y'know." 
 
 "I could have hit him for his lies. He had put the 
 agnature on because he had thought that it was poor 
 stuff, and that by so doing he could shift all responsi- 
 bility onto my shoulders. I hastened to get out of 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 his ofiBce. I was trembling all over when I left him. 
 
 I returned to the noisy cupboard that served for a studio, 
 with my mind a jiunble of conflicting thoughts — anger at 
 Keppy, di^ust at my supine %'assalage to him, irritation 
 at my surroundings — ^all acting as a sort of discordant 
 background to the soft psean of satisfaction that Gresh- 
 am's words had set playing on my heart-strings. I tried 
 to do a little work, but the long afternoon drew to its close 
 with nothing accomplished. Brega toiled awaj', quite 
 as oblivious to indolence as he was to industry. 
 
 After dinner I was whisked off by the cheerful Traxler 
 to the vaudeville. I went more for his sake than my own ; 
 for the eternal sameness of the miscalled "variety" shows 
 had long since ceased to interest me. 
 
 All through the evening, and tmtil I finally dropped aS 
 to sleep, to the endless observations of my room-mate, 
 my thoughts lingered with perverse concentration upon 
 . . . Dorothy Gresham. I found myself recalling, 
 with curious accuracy, little tricks of manner, little turns 
 of speech, and I realized, with something approaching 
 shock, that I was approaching perilously dose to a condi- 
 tion that a man in my circumstances has no right to occupy . 
 
 I think it was one of the Apostles who first declared 
 flight the best method of conquering temptation. 
 
 But flight was quite as impracticable as any oth^ course 
 of action. 
 
 152 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 FIRED 
 
 I CAME into the office one morning, about a week after 
 my visit to the Gresham factory, to meet an indefinable 
 sense of impending catastrophe. Miss Westcott, who 
 was passing as I entered, returned my greeting with a wan 
 and miserable smile, saying nothing. Even little Morris 
 stared at me, it seemed, almost pityingly. Brega looked 
 up as I came into the "studio," and then hastily resumed 
 his work, as if fearful of my speaking to him. A curious 
 hush seemed to pervade the place. The storm was not 
 long in breaking. 
 
 I had been seated at my desk scarcely five minutes, when 
 Morris came in, looking very scared and subdued, to tell 
 me that my presence was desired in Mr. Keppy's ofiice. 
 I obeyed the summons promptly, wondering, with an 
 uncontrollable contraction of the stomach, what in the 
 world was the matter. That something was the matter 
 was all too plain. The atmosphere seemed almost to reek 
 of tuberoses. 
 
 Keppy was ominously calm as I entered his sanctum. 
 His heavy face was set in lines of unusual grimness, and 
 he failed to acknowledge my greeting. Then, tmwonted 
 thing for him, he rose and closed the door. 
 
 153 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "Now," he said, drawing a folded paper from his desk, 
 "perhaps you can tell me the meaning of this . . ." 
 
 Wondering all the more, I opened the document. At 
 the top was the familiar emblem of the Gresham Food 
 Products Company, and in red, underneath it — "Office 
 of the President." My face fell. Here is the letter — 
 
 THE GRESHAM FOOD PRODUCTS COMPANY 
 OfiBce of the President. Chicago, Jtdy zy. 
 
 Keppy Advertising Co., 
 Chicago. 
 Gentlemen: — 
 
 We regret to inform you that our contract for service with you, 
 running out on the 1 5th of August next, will not be renewed. 
 
 Would suggest that you prepare your representatives a little 
 more carefully, so that their statements may coincide with your bills. 
 Would suggest further that you either pay more attention to 
 the intelligence of your clients, or to the bills themselves, in such cases 
 as the chaige for "special art work," cheque for which we hand you 
 herewith. 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 Francis Gheshah, 
 
 President. 
 
 "Now will you tell me what in hell that all means?" 
 roared Keppy, almost purple in the face. 
 
 "Will you tell me how in hell I am to guess what it 
 means? I roared back. I tried to give him as good as 
 he sent. But he was in too much of a rage to note — or 
 to care if he had — ^my disrespect to his august self. 
 
 "Well, damn it all, you ought to know! Unless I'm 
 mighty much mistaken, it's your damned dtmderheaded- 
 n^s that's brought us into this mess." 
 
 1 54 
 
FIRED 
 
 "Will you be good enough to explain?" I said, trying my 
 utmost to keep calm in the face of his insults. 
 
 "Explain, explain . , . you idiot!" he screamed, 
 "there ain't anything to explain. Can't you see what a 
 bloody mess you've made of things? What in hell did ye 
 tell Greshara? • . . damn his soul, anyhow! What 
 in God's name did you say to him? You're the one that's 
 done the trick . . . Now I want to know what you 
 did. You can't get away with anything raw with me, 
 either, by God! I'm not the fool you think I am!" He 
 rattled on in incoherent wrath. I let hirn finish before 
 I tried to answer, though my fingers ached for his vulgar 
 throat. 
 
 "Say what ... to whom . . . when?" I could 
 scarcely speak, for my own anger. 
 
 "Don't try that innocent dodge," he cried. "I've got 
 you with the goods on, an' you might as well admit it. 
 It'll be better for you in the end." 
 
 "If you don't intend to explain your behavior, Mr. 
 Keppy," I said coldly, "I think I had better leave you 
 until you can at least behave like a gentleman." 
 
 "You won't leave till I'm ready," he snarled, banging 
 his gross fist on the desk. "And cut out this top-lofty 
 stuff. I tell you I've got you right. You're a sneak, 
 that's what you are . . . a damned sneak!" I made 
 a threatening movement toward him, but he was too blind 
 with rage to notice it. "Now tell me," he went on, in a 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 voice that must have been heard on the street, "what 
 did you tell Gresham about those drawings?" 
 
 "What drawings?" My exasperation was so great that 
 I almost laughed at the absurdity of the purposeless 
 quarreL 
 
 "What drawings — what drawings? . . . Why, damn 
 it, man, those pretty pictures you stuck into your booklet. 
 What did you say about them?" 
 
 "Oh!" In a dash I realized the dtuation, and I laughed 
 aloud. Keppy, mistaking the meaning of my amusement, 
 grew poatively frenzied. 
 
 "Laugh . . . you damned swindler! Ill make 
 you lau^ on the other side of your face before I'm through 
 with you. Read that second paragraph." He pointed 
 it out with a fat, trembling finger. "What's he mean by 
 that?" 
 
 It was my turn to be filled with a just wratii. "Now 
 you shut that mouth of yours, Keppy," I said in a voice 
 as violent as his own, "and listen to me for a minute 
 ... or 111 throw you out of the window!" An inex- 
 cusably vulgar threat, no doubt, but I was far too angry 
 mjrself to stop to consider manner or verbiage. All my 
 pent up dislike and contempt for the man was behind my 
 hot words. "I see your dirty game now. You thought 
 I was the same sort of a slippery trickster you are yourself 
 . . . and accidentally, I fooled you . . ." 
 
 156 
 
FIRED 
 
 "Accident . . . my neck!" sneered Keppy, bitii^ 
 his lips. 
 
 "Yes — accident. I see your pretty game now. Gresh- 
 am asked me who had done those drawings, and I told 
 him the truth. I haven't gotten to the point yet where 
 I'll steal for you by instinct , . . not by a jugful. 
 I suppose when I told you he liked the stuff you thought 
 you saw a chance to stick him. Well, by thunder, I'm 
 damned glad he was too wise for you. 'Special art work' 
 . . . lord — ^you are a crude scamp!" 
 
 A wave of disgust for the whole situation, for my own 
 part in it, for my vulgar, jejune words, flared up in me. I 
 turned to leave. Keppy shook his fist in my face. 
 
 "You know what this means, you tin foil saint," he 
 gritted between his teeth. "You're out of a job, by God ! 
 You get out of here just as quick as your feet can carry 
 you." 
 
 "They can't carry me half fast enough," I retorted, in a 
 vain effort to be crushing. I had made myself ridiculous 
 — as ridiculous as my adversary — and the knowledge of 
 that fact angered me into further absurdities. 
 
 "Yes . . . and this isn't ended yet," he jeered 
 after me. "I know what you are, and I'll see that every 
 man in this town knows it, too. You won't find a whole 
 lot of people waiting to take on a scut like you, by God!" 
 
 I left him then, and with my face bttming, keenly con- 
 scious of the scared glances of the stenographers and 
 
 157 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 clerks, I walked, with a strong effort at nonchalance, back 
 to my compartment. 
 
 Brega exhibited the first signs of emotion I had ever 
 seen in him. He came over to me, as I was proceeding 
 to pack up my instruments, and put his arm on my shoul- 
 der. For a moment he stood there silent, nervously 
 biting at his pipe. "Never mind . . . never mind 
 . . . ." he stammered. "He's this way often. All 
 right in the morning. Don't let it bother you. Doesn't 
 mean what he says. Really. Don't go . . ." 
 
 "Brega," I said, with a great assumption of dignity, 
 "I wouldn't stay here another hour if he got down on his 
 knees and kissed my feet." Brega only looked pained. 
 The idea of being "fired" was altogether a more painful 
 one to him than it was to me. He continued to stammer 
 deprecatingly — 
 
 "Often does it. All right in the morning. All right — 
 really. Don't go. All right in the morning." But I 
 went on with my packing, and presently he retreated to 
 his desk to observe me in half frightened admiration. I 
 suppose my apparent nonchalance was little short of mag- 
 nificent to his poor broken spirit. 
 
 But I could not maintain any such pose with Miss 
 Westoott. She flitted in a moment later, and held out 
 her hand. "I just heard," she whispered, and I fancied 
 that the tears glistened in her eyes. "I'm so sorry . . . 
 it's a shame . . ." 
 
 IS8 
 
FIRED 
 
 "Better not be seen with the condemned," I said with a 
 smile. I tried to be jaunty, but a little lump persisted 
 in rising in my throat. "Look at the rest of them. 
 They're afraid to look in on me even." It was true. 
 Everyone seemed to be making a studious efiEort to dis- 
 regard my existence. Even Traxler went on with his 
 work as if nothing had happened. It hurt a little, of 
 course, but then — ^the poor creatures had to be careful. 
 Even their sympathies were not their own . . . cer- 
 tainly not in business hours. 
 
 I turned to Miss Westcott, and though I tried bravely 
 to smile, I was not very successful. "I hate to leave 
 . . . some of you ..." I faltered. She looked 
 at me intensely. Then her eyes dropped. She seized 
 my hand. "Good luck . . ." Then she choked and 
 fled precipitately. 
 
 I made a round of the office, shaking hands very gravely 
 and formally with my co-workers, each one of whom ex- 
 pressed the same regrets at my going . . . and, I 
 have no doubt, promptly forgot about me. Then I dis- 
 missed a base temptation to fling a parting sarcasm at 
 Mr. Keppy, and went, without further ado, out of the 
 ghastly hole that had absorbed my sweat for a long, 
 weary year. 
 
 I went out with a light heart, and there was little sorrow 
 in me as I cast my last look upon the dinginess of the 
 building, and smelt for the last time the hideous odors 
 
 159 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 of age and corruption that seemed to cling to it. I was 
 positively jovial when I stood on the street, blinking in 
 the sunshine! 
 
 After .taking my bundle home, I bethought me that 
 this was an excellent opportunity to collect my thoughts 
 and enjoy the unwonted luxtu-y of out-of-doors, so I set 
 out for a stroll in the Park. It was a novel sensation of 
 freedom that filled my breast, and I wanted to join the 
 birds in their caroling. But I wisely reflected that what 
 was expected of birds would doubtless land me in greater 
 durance than I had just escaped, so I went along sedately 
 enough. 
 
 I was so busy in contemplation of my own curious con- 
 tent that I failed to hear my name called, and only stopped 
 when an electric brougham drew up at the curb beside me, 
 and a familiar face smiled down at me. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Gresham." I bowed gallantly. "You are 
 in the picture. You are the very incarnation of siunmer." 
 
 "Harlan . . . such language in the daytime 1 It's 
 like evening dress? — it's indecent." 
 
 "A thousand pardons, lady. But this is Arcadia . . 
 and when the heart sings, there's music on the tongue." 
 
 She laughed merrily. "I think the sunshine has gone 
 to your head. Better put your hat on, or you'll get worse 
 and I'll have to leave you." Then her voice changed, and 
 she added with mock severity, "And what, pray, are 
 you doing out here at this hour of the afternoon?" 
 
 i6o 
 
FIRED 
 
 'I am improvising poetry, and rejoicing silently in liber- 
 ation." 
 
 "In other words, what does that signify?'* 
 
 "In other words, it signifies that I . . . am . . . 
 fired . . . f-i-r-e-d . . , fired!" I smiled quite 
 happily, but her iace exhibited consternation. 
 
 "Do you mean . . . that you have stopped work- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Put with predsion and accuracy! That is exactly 
 what I mean." 
 
 "Why . . . whatever in the world happened?" 
 
 ''^Ir. Keppy and I had a slight difference of opinion, 
 and as he held the deck, and refused to deal any more 
 cards, why I . . . just quit playing. You see before 
 you the only representative of Chicago's leisure class!" 
 
 "Wdl ... for goodness* sakel You are a queer 
 one! But if you haven't anything else to do, you might 
 jump in here and come home to tea with me. Will you?" 
 
 "The first charity for the down-and-outer," I cried. 
 "But I have no pride, and I accept your hand-out, kind 
 lady. Lead on." And I forthwith got in beside her. 
 
 The Gresham home was in pleasang contrast to most 
 of the Chicago houses with which I was familiar. There 
 was very little of the meaningless "junk" that with people 
 of wealth seems to take the place of the portrait album, the 
 wax-flowers, and the "catch-alls" of their grandfathers. 
 The walls were in quiet tones, with but few pictures, the 
 
 i6i 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 furniture, massive, but simple. I looked about for the 
 almost inevitable pink and gilt Louis Quinze, the rococo 
 mirrors, the purposeless keramics, and was delighted to 
 find them all absent. There was a profusion of books, 
 but all of them apparently for use. The large table 
 before the fireplace bore no assortment of knicknacks, 
 expensive, conceivably beautiful, but quite useless. There 
 were a few photographs, but very few, and very simply 
 framed. It was essentially a "living room" in what was 
 obviously a house that had cost a great deal of money to 
 equip. It was an exceedingly "artistic" house, too, but 
 it was of the art that conceals art, and it was the art of per- 
 sonal expression. So many homes are academically beau- 
 tiful, but totally lacking in individuality. The decoration 
 and furnishing has been turned over to undeniably com- 
 petent people, but the result of their work is "out of 
 character," as the dramatic critics say. In the present 
 case, the surroimdings seemed to be a real part of my 
 hostess, not a mere ornamental adjunct. The furniture, 
 the decorations — everything — seemed an integral part of 
 her personal design, springing naturally and inevitably 
 from her, not added as a species of afterthought. The 
 house seemed very diflEerent than on my previous visits 
 — ^just as its mistress seemed different. 
 
 Its beauty was all the more remarkable because I was 
 aware of the fact that Gresham had not been bom to 
 money and taste, but had acquired it all himself. To 
 
 162 
 
FIRED 
 
 find refinement and restraint in the surroundings of a 
 "self-made-man" is sufficiently unique to call for comment. 
 
 Dorothy and I ensconced ourselves in two very large 
 and comfortable chairs, and over the teacups I proceeded 
 to recount the details of my afternoon's dibacle. She 
 listened sympathetically, occasionally interrupting with 
 vivid anathema of my former employer, but for the most 
 part in silence. When I had finished, and had lighted a 
 cigarette, she stood up and clenched her hands. 
 
 "Well," she said, determinedly, "ance you've gotten 
 into this mess through my father, I think he ought to 
 know about it. And he will." 
 
 "My dear lady," I protested, "your father didn't have 
 anything to do with it. The affair simply happened to 
 have him as its pivot. For heaven's sake, don't drag 
 him into it." 
 
 Her face exhibited unsuspected lines of obstinacy — or 
 should I be more gallant, and call it "determination?" 
 She waved her hand as if the matter was quite settled. 
 
 "You will stay to dinner, and we will talk it over. There 
 will be just us three. Don't argue. My mind's made 
 up." 
 
 "But — " I was carried away by her masterfulness, 
 "I really— " 
 
 "You really haven't ansrthing to say about it. I want 
 you and Dad to know each other, anyway. Besides, he 
 
 163 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 probably thinks you're the same sort of a man that Keppy 
 is, and you've got to show him you aren't." 
 
 I capitulated, partly because there seemed to be nothing 
 else to do, and partly because I really welcomed the 
 opportuiuty to become acquainted with Mr, Gresham, 
 "with his slippers on," as his daughter had picturesquely 
 expressed it. He was a tjrpe of American life with which 
 I was not very well acquainted, a "captain of industry;" 
 and I was more than a little anxious to gain some insight 
 into his personality, an insight that, naturally, I would 
 find diflScult, if not impossible, to secure in the ordinary 
 run of business association. 
 
 "Thank you," I said, "I shall be delighted to stay." 
 
 164 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE EGOIST 
 
 WHEN Mr. Gresham came in he greeted me very 
 pleasantly, but qtiite indifferently. But when 
 his daughter identified me as the son of John 
 Chandos, his manner changed completely. Just what 
 the change indicated was hard to say. 
 
 "So you are John Chandos' son," he said again and 
 again. "Come back to make your start in the same place 
 your father made his. But you aren't going to trade on 
 his name, are you?" 
 
 I denied the imputation, and he looked at me search- 
 ingly from those deep-set eyes of his. "I'm glad qf that, 
 young man," he said cryptically. "It wouldn't be wise 
 — ^it wouldn't be wise." There was more meaning in his 
 words than appeared on the surface, that was plain, but 
 just what it was I did not know, and any further attempt 
 to discover it was ended by the annoimcement of dinner. 
 
 Dinner proved most enjoyable. The meal itself was 
 not elaborate, and there was a complete absence of the 
 ostentation and formality with which the newly-wealthy 
 — and those to whom wealth is not quite comprehensible 
 — surround themselves. 
 
 Natturally I said nothing at each new evidence of refine- 
 165 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 ment and simplicity, but I was filled with wonderment. A 
 combination of circumstances had made possible for me a 
 semi-entree into the homes of the Faubourg St. Germain, 
 that tmique society, which without brains, money, or 
 physical strength, yet remains the most exclusive in the 
 world; and I consequently superimposed upon my intel- 
 lectual snobbishness the more common and the more 
 understandable vice of social condescension. 
 
 I had, furthermore, looked upon America — certainly 
 its western portions — ^as rather barbaric and crude, and 
 I had made no exception in favor of Chicago. I con- 
 sidered it essentially bourgeois. Its aesthetic and intel- 
 lectual elements bore too many hall-marks of novelty. 
 
 The great sprawling metropolis was like a painting 
 that has not had time to "set" — ^haxd, garish, the hi^ 
 lights too prominent, the shadows too deep, with an utter 
 absence of atmosphere. And the people who had painted 
 the picture seemed to be attempting a task of which Time 
 alone is capable. They appeared to believe that they 
 could mellow just as rapidly as they had built. And I 
 despised them for it. 
 
 Unconsciously, in my conversation, I gave expression 
 to some of these thoughts. Gresham's response was 
 illuminating — 
 
 ' 'We — that is, my kind, my age, of men — are just what 
 you say," he said. "We knew how to get the money 
 . . . but we haven't the faintest idea how to spend it. 
 
 i66 
 
THE EGOIST 
 
 The wise ones — like myself — ^have educated their children 
 for that job. Look at this house. Do you suppose / 
 could accomplish anything like this? Never in the world. 
 This is all Dorothy's work. Our generation furnishes the 
 sinews, and the next one uses them. The only thing I fear 
 is that the younger generation, in its regard for the end, 
 will lose all consideration for the means. I suppose it'll 
 take a few more generations to strike a balance between 
 the two." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Gresham," I persisted, "here is another 
 thing I don't quite understand. I know something about 
 the 'Chicago Plan' — the scheme to make the city useful 
 the city beautiful. But I don't at all comprehend the 
 men who are behind the Plan. Why will a lot of hard- 
 headed, cold-blooded — and more or less ignorant — ^busi- 
 ness men give their time and their money for a project so 
 thoroughly aesthetic and altruistic?" 
 
 "Purely selfish, Mr. Chandos. We want to make this 
 a beautiful dty, because that will bring more people here. 
 We want to make this a show place. That's why we have 
 military tournaments and motor-boat races and aeroplane 
 meets in the summer. It's advertising. It gets people 
 to come. And they bring their dollars. It means busi- 
 ness for us — ^the men who put up. That's the secret of 
 the whole affair." 
 
 "Then that is why all this effort at beautification is to 
 167 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 be put where it will show . . . the Lake front, the 
 parks, the boulevards? . . ." 
 
 "Surely. We're going to fit up the city's reception 
 room, that's about the size of it . . . it's a business 
 proposition, pure and simple." 
 
 I was silent for a little while. Here was perfectly 
 candid, consistently selfish Business emplojang Beauty 
 for pturely utilitarian purposes. Building, planting, 
 beautifying for the sake of creative work . . . there 
 was nothing whatever of that. Concealed beneath a, 
 shell of apparent nobility was the same spirit of sordid 
 purpose . . . doing things, not for their own sake, 
 but for what they naight bring. But what, rose the never 
 answered question in my mind, what was this end that all 
 the men about me seemed to be seeking? A little timidly, 
 I put the question to my host. 
 
 "Granted that business come to you from all this cre- 
 ative work — granted that it means money in your pockets 
 . . . what then?" 
 
 He looked at me, plainly puzzled. "What then? . . 
 I don't think I quite understand . . ." 
 
 "Well, I do," broke in his daughter, who had been a 
 silent attendant upon our conversation. "I see what 
 Harlan means. What are you going to do with all this 
 money when you get it?" 
 
 Mr. Gresham smiled in tolerant fashion at her serious 
 face. 
 
 i68 
 
THE EGOIST 
 
 "My dear little girl . . . what do you suppose 
 keeps the roof over your head . . . and puts auto- 
 mobiles at your disposal . . . and gives you dancing 
 parties at the Blackstone . . . and . . .?" 
 
 "Oh, I understand all that," she cried. "But after 
 those bills are paid . . . what do you want more 
 money for?" 
 
 Gresham's jaw settled into lines of grimness, and for 
 several moments he was thoughtfully silent. "What 
 else?" he said finally. "Well . . . your soda! posi- 
 tion in this town is second to none, my daughter. You 
 have no superior in that respect. Do you know what 
 put you there?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I see that, of course — ^but . . ." 
 
 "My dear, you don't see it at all. It isn't in the least 
 what you think it is. You're a sweet, attractive girl, 
 you're educated, refined — ^all that . . . but you'd 
 be in outer darkness today if it wasn't for my money. 
 Not the money that buys you clothes and opera boxes 
 and automobiles, either, but the money that means 
 . . . power! You dined at the Mackenzies' the other 
 night. Do you know that I pretty nearly had to break 
 Mackenzie before his wife would open her doors to you? 
 My dear child, there is a tremendous lot of bunk talked 
 in this town about birth and lineage . . . when 
 there's scarcely a family tree that runs back over three 
 generations without striking a man who worked with his 
 
 169 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 hcinds. Social position in a new place like this is based 
 on just one thing . . . and that one thing is money. 
 A few more generations may change things, perhaps 
 . . . though it hasn't changed them any place on the 
 globe. But right now, when you're starting the race, 
 you've got to have it. Money means power. It always 
 has, and it always will. It . . . ." Something in 
 his daughter's expression seemed to disturb him, and he 
 coughed a little nervously. "Don't worry, my dear," he 
 said, apparently answering a suspected objection on her 
 part. "Mr. Chandos knows perfectly well that what I 
 say is the truth. His father didn't have any more social 
 position than I did. And I won't insvilt the young man's 
 intelligence by assuming that he cherishes any delusions 
 as to his being congenitally of the elect. He may be an 
 aiistocrat now, but it will be a bad day for him when he 
 forgets who made hm one . . . and what!" 
 
 "Let's have our coffee in the Ubrary," said Dorothy 
 abruptly. Apparently she wished to create a diversion. 
 I thanked her for it, silently. I welcomed the oppor- 
 ttmity to adjust myself to Mr. Gresham's heterodox 
 opinions. 
 
 I am afraid I had cherished a good many delusions 
 about myself and my position in the community. I had 
 chosen, being htiman and young, to look upon my undis- 
 puted social distinction as being due to intrinsically supe- 
 rior qualities. I had never given much thought as to what 
 
 170 
 
THE EGOIST 
 
 had produced those qtialities. I had fallen into a firm 
 belief in aristocracy, per se, very readily, because that 
 belief is exceedingly easy for those who can afford it. The 
 theory of aristocracy, the superiority of one man to his 
 fellows, due to birth and blood, is of course not substan- 
 tiated by history, or biology — or simple, common sense. 
 But great and rare is the man, who, given the opportunity, 
 does not thus blind himself to the ignominious truth. The 
 aristocracy cult, the theory of inherent superiorities, is, 
 I think, the most pitiful of the weaknesses that man is 
 heir to. Against snobbishness, as against love, intellect 
 seems a feeble barrier. But how it must make the gods 
 laugh! 
 
 When we were seated in the library, Dorothy turned 
 the conversation toward my experience with Keppy. She 
 seemed unwilling to permit further discussion of social 
 distinctions, much as I would have liked to hear more of 
 her father's opinions concerning them. 
 
 Mr. Gresham heard her story in silence, a sardonic 
 smile curling his lips. When she had finished, he laughed 
 outright. 
 
 "That illustrates the man. If he was big, he could take 
 getting caught as part of the game. He's a poor loser. 
 But this particular incident wasn't the thing that settled 
 Keppy. I've suspected him for quite a while. I just 
 wanted to catch him in something particularly raw. I 
 did, all right. Why, Mr. Chandos, that scamp put in a 
 
 171 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 bill for 'special art work' — 'seven drawings by an expen- 
 sive artist' ... at $30 apiece! I suppose he figured 
 that because the book pleased me, he could soak us to a 
 fare-thee-well. But I'm sorry that you've gotten into 
 such a mess. It will be a simple matter for me to explain 
 that you had nothing to do with it, you know." 
 
 "My dear Mr. Gresham," I said earnestly, "you will 
 oblige me by forgetting that I ever had an5rthing to do 
 with the Keppy Company. I wouldn't think of going 
 back there again." 
 
 "But he can make it pretty difficult for you to land 
 another place. A rogue like that wouldn't hesitate to 
 give you a beautiful black eye around the town." 
 
 "I'd sooner run a street-car than go back and eat humble 
 pie before that feUow," I declared youthfully. "I'm 
 through with him . . . and if need be, I'm through 
 with the whole advertising business!" 
 
 There was a short pause in the conversation. Finally 
 Mr. Gresham set his coffee cup down, and leaned forward. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Chandos . . . what do you propose 
 to do?" 
 
 I laughed. "Heavens! Mr. Gresham, it's only a few 
 hours since I lost my job. I haven't gotten to a con- 
 sideration of ways and means, yet." 
 
 "Then you have nothing definite in view?" 
 
 "Absolutely nothing." 
 
 172 
 
THE EGOIST 
 
 "Um . . . You wrote that booklet of ours 
 entirely yourself, of course?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "And did the drawings, too?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Um." There was another and longer pause. My 
 host seemed to be deep in consideration of something. 
 When he spoke, it was with the crisp abruptness that I 
 associated with his business self. 
 
 "How'd you like to move the Keppy Company out to 
 our shop?" he said sharply. 
 
 "Do what?" 
 
 "Move the part that concerns us. I'll explain. The 
 thought has come to me that we would do better by doing 
 our advertising ourselves. I'm tired of agencies. Tried 
 a lot of them . . . Either crooked or incompetent. 
 And I'm tired of doing the work myself. Besides, I'm 
 no artist. I can't get up labels and that sort of thing. 
 How wotdd it strike you? Can't offer you a bed of 
 roses. Hard work, and lots of it, you know. But there's 
 plenty of opportunity for a young man." 
 
 I suppose the bewilderment in my face must have made 
 him sense some reluctance; for he did not wait for any 
 answer. 
 
 "Don't decide it now. Think it over. Come in and 
 see me at the office when you're ready. We'll talk it 
 over." 
 
 173 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 I stammered my thaxiks, which he waved away, and 
 Dorothy alternately blushed and giggled, and all three of 
 us had a very silly, irrational, embarrassing, but alto- 
 gether pleasant time. 
 
 The rest of the evening passed all too quickly. We 
 talked upon a multitude of subjects, and always with 
 the greatest candor. It was quite impossible to conceal 
 or evade with Mr. Gresham. He possessed the faculty of 
 forcing those about him to reveal themselves thoroughly 
 . . . the result being that he and I managed to dis- 
 agree, though with perfect good himior, and I think, 
 mutual respect, on practically every topic that came up. 
 His daughter acted as a sort of impressario, taking but 
 little part in the conversation, herself, and devoting all her 
 faculties to keeping us off shoals that seemed to hold pos- 
 sibilities of conversational shipwreck. 
 
 I found Gresham to be a man of the widest reading, 
 and, what does not necessarily follow, of considerable and 
 deep thought. He was constantly in search of funda- 
 mentals, and there was scarcely an act of his life that was 
 not the result of logical and preconceived analysis. I 
 think he was one of the most thoroughly rational human 
 beings that I have ever known. 
 
 He was a perfect, absolutely consistent egoist. Through 
 all his words, and the life that they revealed, ran a scarlet 
 thread of individualism. He had ssmipathized with 
 Nietzche, and had made the doctrine of the superman his 
 
 174 
 
THE EGOIST 
 
 own. Though he denied the rationality of social aristoc- 
 racy, he maintained spiritual aristocracy with the utmost 
 vigor and conviction. The principles of Darwinism had, 
 naturally, appealed to him strongly, and he had taken 
 them from the animal, material world, and put them into 
 practice in his own. He believed in the survival of the 
 fittest, not merely physically but morally and socially. 
 This resulted in a distrust of altruism, as a spiritual im- 
 pulse; and operating negatively, made him conscientiously 
 and sincerely tmscrupulous. His equipment of thought 
 and reading, superimposed as it was on a naturally gifted 
 mind, made me look upon him as a highly dangerous 
 sophist — ^far more dangerous to the commtmity and to 
 posterity than a less intelligent man perhaps more dan- 
 gerous in practice. 
 
 I felt, from the bottom of my heart, that he was headed 
 in the wrong direction. But though I tried my utmost, 
 I was tmable to teU him why. He defeated me at every 
 point, and our discussion only served to show me that 
 before I could consider my character in the least degree 
 fixed, I must discover the reason for the faiths that were 
 in me. I realized, quite clearly, that had I met Gresham 
 a year or two previous, I would have found myself in more 
 or less complete accord with his egoistic philosophy. But 
 I saw now, with equal clarity, that my own soul had been 
 undergoing a great, if unsuspected, and perhaps not yet 
 quite defined, metamorphosis. 
 
 I7S 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 I resolved then and there that I would accept Gresham's 
 offer, if for no other reason than to learn what had made 
 him and his doctrines; and by confounding them — learn 
 my own. 
 
 When I finally rose to take my leave, it was with the 
 feeling that I was beginning another epoch in my career. 
 The sense of relief at having shaken off all the sordidness 
 inseparable from Keppy and his works, was intensified 
 by a faith that I was in the dawn of bigger, if not neces- 
 sarily better, things. But Dorothy's outstretched hand 
 recalled me from the abstract to the specific, and I was 
 able to express, though inadequately, the very deep 
 sense of gratitude that I felt toward her. When I left her, 
 it was with the assurance and the purpose of seeing her 
 again in the very near future. 
 
 I whistled jovially all the way back to the boarding- 
 house and tossed my bundle of instruments in the air 
 for pure satisfaction. I found a small gathering in my 
 room, of both sexes, indulging in a supper of sandwiches 
 and beer. They all manifested obvious surprise at my 
 joyous demeanor; for, of course, the news of my discharge 
 had percolated through every nook and comer of the 
 building. But Traxler, in a generous effort to keep the 
 conversation off impleasant topics, waved a beer bottle 
 at me — 
 
 "Just in time, Chandos. We've been having a dis- 
 cussion about you. Miss Westcott says you're a snob!" 
 
 176 
 
THE EGOIST 
 
 There was a loud laugh at my dismay on receiving these 
 tidings; but Miss Westcott herself, blushing furiously, 
 protested — 
 
 "It isn't so at all, Mr. Chandos — ^really it isn't. They 
 twisted my words to make a joke out of them." 
 
 "Don't let her kid you, Chandos . . . she said it 
 all right!" laughed Traxler through the remains of a sand- 
 wich. 
 
 "What do you want me to do?" I asked, considerably 
 nettled and disappointed, though I tried to conceal it. 
 "Defend myself?" 
 
 "Hooray!" yelled one of the party. "The prisoner's at 
 the bar!" And forthwith they all began to march around 
 Miss Wescott and me, chanting absurdly — "They're 
 hangin' Harlan Chandos in the momin'." I had to laugh 
 in spite of myself, but Miss Westcott was serious. 
 
 "I didn't say you were a snob," she said earnestly. "I 
 simply said you were different from the rest of us, and all 
 the chatter about democracy, and all your niceness 
 wouldn't make it otherwise." 
 
 "Well, what's that but calling him a snob?" cried 
 Traxler, hugely delighted at having succeeded in evoking 
 what he would call a "rise." 
 
 "Snobbishness," I propotmded oracularly, "is . . . 
 absurd in this great and glorious democracy!" 
 
 "Hear! Hear!" Traxler poimded on the wash-stand 
 with his beer bottle. "The prisoner is acquitted!" he 
 
 177 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 shouted. "Let us rejoice with music and song." And 
 forthwith he began to play "America" on his harmonica. 
 All joined hands and circled about us, chanting madly, 
 imtil someone managed to change the tune to "Dixie." 
 Then pandemonium broke loose, with eadi one trying to 
 give his version of the "Rebel yell" — ^until finally everyone 
 was obliged to sit or fall down, screaming with laughter. 
 
 "But what," I demanded, when the excitement had 
 subsided somewhat, "is the occasion for this crazy jam- 
 boree?" 
 
 "My birthday," explained Traxler, proudly. 
 
 "Well, for goodness' sake . . . why didn't you 
 invite me?" 
 
 "Only remembered it when I got home," he said cheer- 
 fully. "But don't complain, my boy. The evening is 
 still young, and there's at least one bottle of beer left. 
 Here, Miss Westcott — ^no sense in wasting good beer 
 . . . If you ain't going to drink it, give it to Chandos. 
 Come on, everybody — ^another toast to the great, the 
 glorious, and the good Henry G. Traxler. Bottoms up, 
 everybody!" 
 
 The hour was late, and gradually, with the never-absent 
 certainty of early rising next morning, the crowd began to 
 thin out, and the tone of the conversation to subside from 
 the high pitch of joviality it had attained at my arrival. 
 The cessation of the beer supply, and the improbability 
 of its replenishment also had something to do with the 
 
 178 
 
THE EGOIST 
 
 party's ending, I suspect. Finally no one remained but 
 Traxler, Miss Westcott, and Heiny Fremsbourg, a young 
 Austrian of impregnable taciturnity, who, studying 
 English, never left a gathering while conversation lasted. 
 
 When Traxler finally spoke, on the subject which was 
 plainly close to his heart, it was haltingly. But his 
 timidity soon vanished in his natural sincerity. 
 
 "I say, Chandos — ^you know . . . you're not sore 
 about the way I acted this afternoon ... at the 
 office, you know? It must have seemed as if I didn't 
 care much about your smash-up with Keppy. But 
 honest — ^I . . ." 
 
 "I waved away his protestations, and he went on more 
 easily. 
 
 "It wasn't that I didn't feel bad . . . but, well — 
 you know how it is. Keppy was sore as a crab . . . 
 and I didn't want to risk any scrap with him myself. I 
 couldn't do anything, of course, and I ran a chance of 
 gettin' him down on me for nothing. That wouldn't have 
 done you no good, an' it might have put me on the street. 
 And believe me — ^it's no cinch gettin' a job when you've 
 been fired. That is," he continued in confusion at a dis- 
 gusted glance from Miss Westcott, "it's hard for a clerk 
 like me. Of course, it's different with you . . ." 
 
 I smiled. "I don't just see where it's different. JDon't 
 artists need references just the same as order-clerks?" 
 
 Traxler reddened slightly, and coughed in obvious em- 
 179 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 barrassment. But he disregarded my question. "Keppy 
 certainly was sore at you. He went around after you 
 left, tellin' everybody what a rascal you were. Gee, you 
 must have lit into him for fair!" My room-mate was 
 admiring, but manifestly apprehenave. 
 
 "I don't suppose he'll go around the town telling his 
 friends what a desirable gem I am, will he?" 
 
 "Oh, well," said Traxler, looking very uncomfortable. 
 "I don't think you'll have as much trouble as you think." 
 
 "Oh, come now," I cried, with what must have seemed 
 to my companions, not as yet knowing the true state of 
 afiEairs, a pitifully vain-glorious indifference. "You know 
 perfectly well, and so do I, that Keppy is going to spread 
 the news far and wide in the advertising fraternity that 
 I am a crook and a scoundrel . . . and he'll add a 
 great many things that will do more credit to his imagina- 
 tion than to his veracity. He's going to do everything in 
 his power — ^which is a good deal — ^to make it exceedingly 
 hard for me to get another job. Now admit it — ^both of 
 you — ^isn't that the case?" 
 
 Their silence, and expressions of discomfort, were 
 answer enough. My cheerful laugh must have seemed 
 almost inhuman to them, and my apparent disdain, a 
 courage bom of ignorance — ^Ajax defjmig the lightning. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" asked Miss Westcott, after 
 a miserable little pause. 
 
 "Oh shucks! — you don't need to worry," supplemented 
 1 80 
 
THE EGOIST 
 
 Traxler, with a brave, but not wholly successful, effort 
 to imply complete confidence in my future. 
 
 I dropped my bomb without a flourish. "I have an 
 offer from the Gresham Food Products Company to be- 
 come its advertising manager," I said quietly. 
 
 "The devil you have!" exploded Traxler. "Then you 
 . . . oh." The expression on his face was a curious 
 compound of relief, surprise, suspicion, and misimder- 
 standing. I sensed at once what was in his mind. 
 
 "No, my boy — ^you're wrong. It isn't what you think," 
 I laughed. "You're thinking just what Keppy will think 
 when he hears about it. But he'U be wrong, too. I 
 wasn't a spy in your midst. I only got my offer tonight." 
 
 "Tonight?" cried Traxler. 
 
 "Yes . . . from Mr. Gresham . . . not two 
 hours past." 
 
 "But — I . . ." Miss Westcott's surprise was as 
 great as Traxler's — . "I thought you didn't know Mr. 
 Gresham," she said accusingly. "Didn't you tell me you 
 didn't?" 
 
 I had a vague unwillingness to explain the truth. These 
 people with whom I dwelt were so unaffectedly genuine, 
 so candidly open-mouthed, in their reverence for names 
 that possessed, naturally, not the slightest awe for me, that 
 I felt uncomfortable at being obliged to confess an actual 
 intimacy with the personalities back of the names. I was 
 particularly averse to it just now, because of the words 
 
 i8i 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 that had greeted me when I had entered the room. A 
 confession now would seem almost like a confiimation of 
 Miss Westcott's charge. But if there was really no pur- 
 pose in concealment or evasion, there was even less possi- 
 bility. So I made my confession — 
 
 "I dined with the Greshams, tonight . . ," 
 
 "Well, by George!" Traxler dropped his pipe in stark 
 and unaffected amazement. "By George!" But Miss 
 Westcott's astonishment was tempered with persistent 
 curiosity. f 
 
 "But how did he happen to invite you . . . and 
 when?" she asked, with an interest too gentiine for im- 
 pertinence. I had to make my revelations complete. 
 
 "He didn't ask me ... his daughter did." 
 
 "His daughter?" Traxler's eyes stared like a hyp- 
 notic's. 
 
 "Yes. You see, I've — er — ^known her for some time. 
 And tonight I dined with her. Then she told her father 
 all about the mess I had gotten into . . . and he 
 ended by asking if I wotdd come out there to work. There's 
 the whole story." 
 
 "Well, by George!" said Traxler again, stupidly. "Talk 
 about a fellow landing on his feet. Holy Smoke! And 
 you know his daughter. Gee ... I read about her 
 in the Sunday papers. Can you beat it?" 
 
 Miss Westcott remained curiously silent, unsmiling. Her 
 attitude rather piqued me. 
 
 182 
 
THE EGOIST 
 
 "Well . . . what do you think about it?" I asked. 
 
 She smiled — ^rather weaMy, I thought. "You are very 
 fortunate. It's a great opportunity. You'll accept the 
 offer, of course?" 
 
 "Oh, yes — of course." 
 
 Conversation languished. Traxler was too amazed to 
 speak. Fremsbourg, as usual, smoked and listened. Miss 
 Westcott sat looking down at her hands, and I grew more 
 and more uncomfortable in the silence. Finally she rose 
 and held out her hand. 
 
 "Good-night, Mr. Chandos. My sincerest congratula- 
 tions ... I hope everything will come to you. 
 Good-night . . ." 
 
 She left without saying anjrthing further. Fremsbourg 
 soon followed her, and Traxler and I were left alone. 
 
 His first fit of stupefaction over, Traxler tended toward 
 garrulity. But I had lost all desire for conversation. Miss 
 Westcott's curious reception of my news had driven me 
 into hurt and angry taciturnity. My replies to poor 
 Traxler's overtures were almost brutal. Without further 
 ado, and curtly disdaining the offer of one of his birthday 
 cigars, I prepared for bed. For a while he tried hard to 
 overcome my reticence, but finally, with his usual philo- 
 sophical fortitude, he followed my example. We un- 
 dressed almost in silence, save for an occasional observa- 
 tion from him, like the few expiring pops from a package 
 of fire-crackers. At length, with a brusque word, I ex- 
 tingtiished the light and turned in. 
 
 183 
 
M' 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 MORE POETRY THAN POETS DREAM OF 
 
 Y first few months with the Gresham Food 
 Products Company were not made up of days 
 of unalloyed delight. Mr. Gresham made it 
 clear from the start that I was to expect no evidences of 
 favoritism, and that I was there strictly on my merits, 
 with my coimection to be promptly terminated the 
 moment he was convinced of my inability to hold the 
 position. That, of cotirse, was as it should be, and I was 
 rather pleased than otherwise at his attitude. But the 
 work was all new, and strive as I did to learn, and to 
 increase in capacity, I was constantly oppressed by the 
 ghastly fear that I might fail to "make good." I threw 
 myself into my duties with all the vigor that I possessed, 
 resolutely putting aside all my distaste for "business," 
 and resolving to make the best of my situation. But I 
 seemed to move very slowly, and at times I grew very 
 discotiraged indeed. 
 
 But to balance and compensate for the manifold diffi- 
 culties in my way, there was a largeness and breadth about 
 the work that was very gratifying after the essential petti- 
 ness of Keppy's establishment. Although my shoulders 
 sometimes groaned imder the responsibilities that were 
 
 184 
 
MORE POETRY THAN POETS DREAM OF 
 
 put upon them, I could not but rejoice at the fact that I 
 had responsibilities to bear. 
 
 My first surprise came when I had been in my new 
 position only a day or two. On one of my inspection 
 tours, which I took to familiarize myself with the physical 
 aspects of the business, I eiitered a dark passageway and 
 collided smack with — Harrower. 
 
 "Well of all things — " I gasped. "What are you doiag 
 here?" 
 
 "Same thing you are," he grinned cheerfully. "Work- 
 in' for Gresham, I would have welcomed you to the place 
 before, but I've been laid up for a couple of days, and I've 
 been so busy this morning ..." 
 
 "So you're a member, too. Been here long?" 
 
 "About a year." He grinned again, but as he ap- 
 peared anxious to be about his business, we separated 
 without further talk. His work, I learned afterward, 
 took him out a good deal, so that I saw him only occasion- 
 ally. He was always the same, and I grew to like him 
 very much. But I had to make my way without even his 
 assistance. 
 
 It is a law of psychology that what we know we like — 
 that is, we like it if we know it thoroughly and fundamen- 
 tally enough. So, as time went on, and my knowledge 
 increased and went deeper, I found myself becoming 
 actually interested in the prosaic business of making and 
 distributing food products. I reached a point finally 
 
 i8S 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 where I seemed to have di^^ded into two personalities — 
 the old and the new. This new creature that had sprang 
 into being unasked, and grew unaided, appeared half 
 ready to confess almost a fiandness for the life it led, to 
 rejoice in what it was doing, and to see poetry, romance, 
 even beauty, in the complicated mechanisms of sordid 
 commerce. But its predecessor, not yet dead, linga>ed, 
 grimly contemptuous of such heresies. 
 
 There were times, of course, when my longing for the 
 beauty and the romance of life as it had once appeared to 
 me, became so overpowering that it seemed as if my soul 
 would never emerge again from the Slough of Despond 
 into which it had been plunged. On those occasions, 
 blessedly growing less and less frequent, I was wont to 
 take long and solitary walks into the country, or if time 
 lacked, to spend my allotted hour in self-commtmion on 
 the Esplanade in Lincoln Park. The sullen roar of the 
 Lake seemed to have power to take my thou^ts off my- 
 self, and direct them to the miiverse. As I felt smallar 
 and more in^gnificant, my soul-sickness, my nostalgia 
 for the past, diminished, and then passed a\\-ay. It was a 
 rather curious thing that these fits of depression always 
 vanished more quickly when the Lake was stormy than 
 when the sun was out and it was quiet. I suppose my 
 feeling of personal unimportance was the keener vrhea the 
 contrast between my power and that of Nature was the 
 more apparent. 
 
 i86 
 
MORE POETRY THAN POETS DREAM OF 
 
 I was sitting one Sunday afternoon in late Fall on a pile 
 near the water's edge, ruminating upon my present, and 
 speculating upon my futture, when I descried a familiarly 
 angular figure coming toward me from the North. I 
 waited until it was near enough to confirm my recognition, 
 and then I whistled. She stopped short, and then came 
 rapidly toward me. 
 
 "Well, Miss Bennett," said I, in an effort to assume a 
 joviality I was far from feeling. "What brings you out 
 here on a day like this?" 
 
 "Come on over to a bench," she said without smiling. 
 "That is, if you're willing to chat a bit. I haven't seen 
 you for months and months. I'm consumed with curi- 
 osity." 
 
 "You're a flatterer," I said, as I followed her. 
 
 "I didn't say why I was curious . . ." Her voice 
 was add, and I felt properly rebuked. 
 
 "Now," she continued, as we seated ourselves. "You've 
 got to talk about yourself while I gather my feelings 
 together. I hear you've joined the forces of iniquity rep- 
 resented by the Gresham Company." 
 
 "Quite so . . . But why that aspersion upon their 
 righteousness — and mine?" 
 
 She favored me with a sardonic stare. "Do you mean 
 to say that you have been there as long as you have with- 
 out knowing what I mean?" 
 
 "Business is business, dear lady!" I laughed cynically 
 187 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 at the cynicism of my words, and the tmconscious ease with 
 which I had uttered them. Truly my metamorphosis was 
 as complete as it was rapid. 
 
 "Um — ^you're one of them already, I see. Well, I don't 
 blame you. Gresham's not the man to be subordinated 
 by his subordinates. I don't wonder that you've fallen 
 into his ways. I've just been to see him, myself. That's 
 why I'm all upset." 
 
 "You . . . what for, pray?" 
 
 "Begging. We have a movement on foot to put a 
 trellis on the^iailing vines of poesy in this degenerate day, 
 and we have to persuade the men of commerce to sub- 
 sidize the men of art. Poets are having a hard time of it 
 because the magazines won't buy their poetry, and pub- 
 lishers won't publish it. The only thing to do is to issue 
 a publication devoted to literature instead of to making 
 money." 
 
 "And you hope to get these ignorant, hard-headed men 
 of commerce to foot the bills?" I asked incredulously. 
 
 "Precisely. And it's not nearly the task you think. 
 I'm not afraid of the ignorant ones; it's the cultured men 
 who won't donate. Why, I got a cheque for $500 this 
 morning from a stock-broker who doesn't read ansrthing 
 but the newspapers. He counts such a cost cheap to be 
 enrolled for public admiration as one of the supporters of 
 such an ultra cultured movement. It's the old principle 
 of wanting what you haven't got." 
 
 188 
 
MORE POETRY THAN POETS DREAM OP 
 
 "But what about Gresham? Did he loose the money 
 bags?" 
 
 "Gresham!" she snorted, grinding her umbrella into the 
 gravel. "Gresham — ^why he made me so mad I almost 
 cried . . . and I haven't done that in twenty years!" 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "Say? poodness, he didn't talk — ^he philosophized. 
 Think of it, that disciple of mammon confounded me in 
 epigram!" 
 
 "He is rather terse, isn't he?" I said sympathetically. 
 
 "Rather. I told him what the money was for, and 
 what do you think his answer was? — 'My dear Miss Ben- 
 nett, we don't write poetry nowadajrs ... we 
 build it!" 
 
 "But that's rather true, isn't it?" I said thoughtfully. 
 
 "True? Of course it's true. That's why I couldn't 
 answer him. Or rather it was true when he said it. It 
 sounded true. And before I cotdd argue with the man any 
 further he was forcing this book on me. Ever read it?" 
 She held out Gerald Stanley Lee's Voice oj the Machines. 
 "Look how he's got it underlined all through. One can't 
 argue with a man like that. I've got to seek stock- 
 brokers who haven't thought so much . . . nor read 
 so much." 
 
 "Yes," I admitted, "Gresham's not a man who is easy 
 to dominate." 
 
 "Well, how do you find him in business?" 
 189 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 "Infinitely less of an evil than my former employer. I 
 can't say that his code of ethics is any more ideal — but it 
 is certainly broader. He's not a — ^what do you call it? — 
 a 'piker.' He's big enough and broad enough to be rather 
 fine in a way. Yes — I have to admit it ... I like 
 him tremendously." 
 
 "So do I," she said, with a regretfulness that was almost 
 comic. "But he's just about spoiled me for this job. I 
 can't beg from anybody now except those who are willing 
 to subscribe to tickle their illiterate vanity. And I've 
 lost all my assurance of the pvirpose for which I'm working. 
 He's a sophistical demon, that man is! But here . . . 
 I'm altogether too restless to sit still. And I certainly 
 can't do any more soliciting this afternoon. I think I'll 
 go home and see what this book has to tell me. I may lose 
 all my faith in art itself before I'm through . . . and 
 then 111 starve. Good-bye." 
 
 "Oh, I say — don't run off like that. Stay and talk a 
 bit," I cried. 
 
 "Impossible. I've got to do a bit of silent thinking. 
 And I've got to get off an article for the Bellman tonight. 
 But come and see me some time, won't you? I'm in- 
 tensely interested in your progress from Bohemia to 
 Philistia. You're a man without a covmtry now . . . 
 but you won't be long. Good-bye." And with that this 
 curious, volatile, ugly, intensely capable creature made off 
 
 190 
 
MORE POETRY THAN POETS DREAM OF 
 
 through the trees, her ill-fitting skirts flapping about her 
 gaunt limbs. 
 
 I remained where I was for a while, thinking over 
 Gresham's words about poetry. They were heretical, 
 but strangely, I found myself quite understanding what 
 he had meant. Poets were dumb, not because the 
 meditims of expression were closed to them, but because 
 they had nothing to say. There were no poets, as the 
 world formerly considered poets — ^but there was poetry. 
 And this poetry was greater than it had ever been before, 
 because it was more expansive, more subtle, more vital 
 and more significant. Electricity — steam — air . . . 
 these were the threads from which the poetry of the future 
 was to be spun. And because these forces could not, from 
 their very nature, be expressed in words, the blind world 
 persisted in thinking that there was no poetry, no beauty, 
 in them. Westinghouse, Edison, Tesla, Parsons, Wright, 
 Steinmetz, Pasteur . . . yes, and Rockefeller, Harri- 
 man, Hill, Goethals, and — why not? — Gresham . . . 
 these were the poets of our time. They dealt with actual- 
 ities, not symbols, not content with attempting to express 
 in words the inexpressible. My thoughts reverted to 
 that day, so long ago it seemed, when I had stood at night- 
 fall on the bridge, and seen, as in a vision, the mysterious 
 beauty of things that had appeared all ugliness in the day. 
 For a moment I had a penetrative glimpse into the reality 
 of things. Beauty? There is beauty in a rose, for all the 
 
 191 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 world to see, of course. But for the eye that can see it, 
 there is also beauty in a troUey wire, in a jet of steam 
 . . . in a bottle of Green Label Ketchup . . . and 
 there is more sheer divine mystery, a greater manifestation 
 of the inscrutable purposes of Creation, in a penny magnet, 
 than there is in aU the sonnets that ever were written. 
 
 I laughed aloud — ^but it was a laugh not unmixed with 
 satisfaction — at the consternation and tumult I could 
 arouse in my former haimts of Paris, by the promulgation 
 of these doctrines. I would find short shrift at the hands 
 of the Scholiasts, but something in my heart of hearts told 
 me that my faith was the broader, the sweeter, the more 
 pregnant with future — ^and in the end, truer than theirs. 
 
 My days of toil had been productive of more than 
 dollars. I had bartered my time, my thought and my 
 body, and my identity had been submerged in the great 
 sea of labor; but in return I bade fair to win my artistic 
 salvation. I, who could never write a poem or paint one, 
 was learning that there is more poetry in the world than 
 is to be found at the ends of pens and brushes . . . 
 more poetry than poets dream of. 
 
 Suddenly I realized that it was dark, and remembering 
 that boarding-house table d'h6tes wait not upon philoso- 
 phy, I made quick time back to my humble abode. Such 
 are the quick transitions from the sublime to the ridiculous 
 . . . thus do we leave the stars to return to earth — and 
 dinner I 
 
 192 
 
MORE POETRY THAN POETS DREAM OP 
 
 Traxler tried to persuade me to accompany him on his 
 regular visit to the vaudeville, but I preferred to spend the 
 evening with a book. It was not a "light" book, either, 
 being Herkner's "Die Arbeiterfrage" ; but I had for some 
 time been developing a keen interest in the clumsy, con- 
 fused, unjust relations of Capital and Labor, and I could 
 not be swerved from what promised to be an interesting 
 and profitable evening. 
 
 193 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 NOT very long after my change of positions, I moved 
 from the boarding house that had sheltered me so 
 long. The reason was the distance I had to travel 
 to reach the Gresham factory. It was necessary for me 
 to rise dose to five o'clock in order to reach the plant at 
 eight; and as the dining-room was not at that hour open, 
 I was obliged to get my breakfasts at a filthy little all- 
 night place on Clark Street. 
 
 To Traxler's oppressed regret, therefore, I took my few 
 belongings to a new abode out on Indiana Avenue. Com- 
 pared even with my Dearborn Avenue domicile, this new 
 place was enoi^ to dismay lie most resolute. Such 
 gentility as it had ever possessed had vanished long before 
 my birth, I am sure. It was dirty and dark and malo- 
 dorous, and the food was neither tasty nor sound. The 
 people that dwelt there were no better ... at least 
 they did not seem to be, though I really should not pass 
 judgment upon them, because I kept sedulously to myself, 
 and made no effort at social intercourse. 
 
 I might have lived in a much better place, but not in so 
 satisfactory' a location. Beades, I had had my financial 
 instincts awakened, and I was saving my nickels with the 
 
 194 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 very definite purpose of investing ultimately in stock of 
 the Gresham Food Products Company. I was not over- 
 comfortabk, of course, but I had books, and the Club, 
 which I visited every Saturday. Through Harrower I 
 had slowly acquired a fairly large acquaintanceship, so 
 that I was never lonely for companions when I wanted 
 them; and in my position as Advertising Manager I had 
 come in touch with numerous representatives of news- 
 papers and magazines ... so that altogether, I was 
 reasonably comfortable. 
 
 Of Dorothy Gresham I saw very little. I dined with 
 her about once a month, and so heard more or less about 
 her doings. And then, once in a very great while, I donned 
 my evening clothes, and sallied forth to a dance or a 
 dinner. On these occasions I frequently met her; and 
 once at least I took her out to dinner. She betrayed not 
 the slightest embarrassment, and I am sure, felt none. 
 She treated me as an old friend, with whom she was on 
 terms of the most perfect intimacy. On these occasional 
 encounters we talked on the most impersonal topics. 
 Never once did we become so perilously personal as on that 
 never-to-be-forgotten night of her dinner-party. 
 
 Harrower, from what I was told, and from what I saw, 
 still pursued her diligently: but with apparently small 
 success. He seemed tongue-tied in her presence, and it 
 amused me to watch the misery on his face when they were 
 in a company of her choosing. She treated him exactly 
 
 195 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 as one would treat a favorite collie, and I suppose assured 
 him of the futility of his suit every time they met. But 
 I could not but wonder why she did not want him. 
 
 He and I had become rather intimate, and the better 
 I knew him, the better I liked him. He was a rather 
 admirable type, and he was succeeding. He was clean- 
 cut, honest, good-looking, and able — as far as his total 
 absence of imagination would allow. 
 
 Her blindness seemed a pity to me. Harrower had such 
 real possibilities in him, and she had such an opportunity 
 to make the most of them, that I rather resented her 
 failure to take it. I often wondered how long he would 
 continue to wear his self-imposed shackles — a bondage 
 that was the jest of the town. 
 
 Dorothy constituted my one remaining link with the 
 world of art. I had, of course, in my peregrinations in 
 the world of society, met again most of the pseudo artistic 
 people I had encountered at her home, and more like them. 
 But the better I knew them, the flatter they seemed. As 
 for really sincere workers at the arts, I saw Uttle of them. 
 This was partly because there were not many of them, 
 partly because the few that there were were inaccessible, 
 and partly because I lacked both the time and the inclina- 
 tion to seek them. 
 
 The factory continued to grow as my prime interest in 
 Hfe. It not only took all my time, but it took more and 
 more of my thought. And the toll it exacted was more 
 
 196 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 and more freely paid. Without quite realizing the extent 
 or the rapidity of the change, I felt myself becoming less 
 the slave and more the master of destiny. The fetters 
 of toil no longer galled, and every now and then I realized, 
 with something akin to shock, that I was actually enjoying 
 my work. 
 
 Even the surroundings of the plant, which on my first 
 visit had seemed so imsightly, no longer appalled me. 
 Carlyle says something to the effect that "a rotting leaf 
 by the road-side has beauty for him who has eyes to see 
 it." That was the way with me. Even the grim, red, 
 sprawling buildings, in all their intrinsic ugliness, lost their 
 power to displease me as I came to know what was inside 
 of them, and what had made them be. They acquired 
 a kind of Soul for me. It was like learning to know an ill- 
 favored woman. In my increasing love for those hideous 
 factories, with all their dirt and noise and strife, I came 
 to understand many marriages that had been inexplicable 
 to me before. 
 
 The effort I put into my work had its fruition. From a 
 mere clerk, constantly under close supervision, I was 
 accorded more and more responsibility, until, with the 
 passage of time, I became Advertising Manager in fact 
 as well as name. Then, very gradually, I increased the 
 scope of my duties, tmtil finally I was put in charge of the 
 sales force, too, and thus had under my command the dis- 
 tributing end of the business. 
 
 197 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 This advance caused my first friction with Harrower. 
 He had not only been in the concern much longer than I, 
 but he had also had much more business experience. He 
 was, therefore, quite justified in the more or less open 
 hostility he exhibited at my progress. 
 
 He strolled into my office the morning the announce- 
 ment of the change was made. "Well," he said, with a 
 disagreeable Uttle smile, "for an artist with no knowledge 
 of business, you seem to be doing pretty well . . . 
 You've done some good selling up at 1700 . . ." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" I demanded hotly. 
 
 "Oh, don't get on your ear. I'm not squealing . . . 
 I know her myself. I had the same chance." 
 
 I was hurt and angry. It was grossly unjust to bring 
 Dorothy's name into the affair. "Really, Harrower, 
 . . . are you trying to be insulting?" 
 
 "Oh, no offense — ^no offense." He selected a cigarette, 
 lighted it, blew a puff of smoke in my face, and smiled 
 impleasantly. "You ought to play ingenue roles," he 
 said, and strolled out of the office, whistling to himself. 
 
 My new position did not give me any authority over 
 him, but it gave me equal authority in his own department. 
 There was, therefore, abundant opportunity for friction. 
 I realized that I would need all the tact I possessed to 
 keep even an appearance of amity between us. 
 
 Thinking it over, even now, I realize the justice in Har- 
 rower's pique. I was an "upstart" — ^there could be no 
 
 198 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 doubt of it. But I see more clearly now why I, with less 
 practical experience, yet superseded him. It was because 
 he lacked imagination — ^without which no man can ever 
 reach the top in business. As an executive he possessed 
 limitless possibilities: but he could not plan at all. He 
 was a worker, not a dreamer . . . and the highest 
 places in business, as in art, are occupied by dreamers. 
 
 But it was not merely in titles that progress came, and 
 my promotions were not the only marks of my develop- 
 ment. As I increased my interest in the selling of the 
 Gresham products I grew more and more interested in 
 commerce as a whole. And I grew gradually, without 
 quite noticing the steps, from a more or less confined 
 interest in the products themselves, to an interest in the 
 factors that had produced them. In other words, in the 
 process of becoming a rather efficient business machine, 
 I also became something of an altruist. I began to real- 
 ize, with a certain poignancy, the men and women behind 
 the Green Label. 
 
 It was McNamara who first epitomized the changes 
 that were going on in me. 
 
 He was a disillusioned, harsh featured, harsh tongued 
 Scot of some fifty years . . . a bachelor, and with no 
 discoverable emotions. Until one afternoon he had meant 
 nothing to me except that he was a thoroughly satisfac- 
 tory workman who kept his machinery moving with com- 
 mendable certitude. But on that particular afternoon, 
 
 199 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 McNamara, without in the least suspecting it, gave me 
 an insight into life that I never had had before. 
 
 I chanced to be down in the engine room, on my vray 
 out to the shipping platform. As I passed Mac, he 
 merely nodded his head, with the privil^ed indifference 
 of the old emplo3ree. But my eyes happened to fall upon 
 what he was doing; and I was so interested that I stopped. 
 
 '■"What in the name of heaven are you doing that for?" 
 I asked, curious at the patient industry with which he 
 was polishing one of the bolts on his dynamo. 
 
 Mac looked a little confused, but went on with his 
 polishing. 
 
 "Will you tell me what good that does?" I continued, 
 as he made no reply. ' 'Wfll it make the thing run better? 
 Will it get ^TDU better wages? Will it give more power? 
 What earthly good wUi it do?" 
 
 He scratched his head, plainly puzzled. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Chandos, I can't say that it'll do any of 
 those things," he rephed, "but I like to help this here 
 little lady look as well as she can. I suppose it ain't verra 
 practical, as you might say, but • . . oh, wed . . . 
 ye see — ^I like to do it." He patted the dynamo lovingly. 
 
 I passed on to other af^drs. But I have never forgotten 
 that incident- Why that hard-headed, hard-working 
 man should busy himsdf over a task that was essentially 
 an aesthetic one, presented a problem not easy of solution. 
 If a man is an artist and a poet insofar as he creates for 
 
 200 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 the sheer joy of creation, and toils without reward for 
 inutile beauty, then McNamara was fundamentally just 
 as much an artist as Corot, and just as mudi a poet as 
 Milton. The sole difference was in the medium. 
 
 I went back to my desk, feeling in some curious way as 
 if I had stumbled upon the Philosopher's Stone. Life 
 seemed broader and clearer than it had ever seemed before. 
 Toil took on a new significance. All the world's work 
 was not performed merely to win bread or glory. Men 
 built ships and bridges — ^yes, and factories . . . they 
 made shoes and nails and food products — ^not to win divers 
 forms of reward, but because they had to. They might 
 not know it . . . and usually they did not: but the 
 fact was there. In a flash I had a penetrative glimpse 
 into Holy Writ — "Man created in the image of his Maker." 
 . . . More than that . . . Man was God Himself 
 — Man was a Creator, too. And he attained divinity 
 whether he painted the most sublimely beautiful picture 
 . . . or penned the most deathless poem ... or 
 polished a bolt on a dynamo! 
 
 I was so full of this tremendous thought that I found it 
 impossible to concentrate upon the work I was doing. So 
 I rose and wandered through the factory. Slowly I made 
 my way through the cooking rooms, where the great vats 
 steamed and sizzled, tended by dull-eyed, stupid looking 
 men and women. I went into the rooms where great 
 inachines, seemingly free from human attention, were 
 
 201 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 stamping out cans, with a crash and roar as of hell itself. 
 I passed on into the rooms where, at endless tables, light- 
 ning-fingered girls sat putting on labels. I went down to 
 the shipping rooms, where brawny men, half dressed, were 
 swinging their hammers with the speed and precision of 
 machines. Through room after room, and floor after 
 floor I passed, studying everjd;hing, accommodating every- 
 thing to this new, great idea; that the unwitting McNamara 
 had germinated in my breast. 
 
 I scrutinized the faces of the workers, who scarcely 
 glanced at me, so intent were they upon the relentless 
 tasks before them. Their faces indicated no sense of the 
 divine power of creation. They were in no fierce joy of 
 poetry. Every eye was dulled with miseries untellable, 
 every back bent with the weight of ages of toil. Little 
 did they suspect the divinity that was in them, the poetry 
 of the machines they tended . . , these Sparks from 
 the anvil of Infinity. 
 
 But as I watched them, my eyes clearer than they had 
 ever been before, and saw the sordidness reflected from 
 every face, I was not dismayed. I had only the feeling 
 that I have when I see some callow, dull-featured youth, 
 with a couple of twisted boards, and some bits of cat-gut, 
 pouring forth all the tears and laughter and mystery of 
 life. What difference does it make whether he knows 
 what he is doing? What difference does it make what 
 trifles he does it with? What if these poor wretched 
 
 202 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 clods knew nothing of the song they were singing in the 
 grinding clash of their machinery, what if they under- 
 stood nothing of the endless pictures they were painting 
 in the sweat of their humble brows? What need the 
 player know ... if only the Song be there? 
 
 It was not long after this that I had my first difference 
 of opinion with my employer. I was summoaed one 
 morning to see him in his office. 
 
 "Chandos," he said, when I had seated myself. "I 
 suppose you know that Remsen has knocked a hole in 
 Wiley's nonsense about benzoate of soda? I think it 
 would be a good idea to play that decision up pretty strong 
 in our advertising." 
 
 "Mr. Gresham," said I, "I've been thinking about that 
 benzoate matter, mj^elf, and I think . . . why not 
 cut it out?" 
 
 "You mean say nothing about It in our copy? Well, 
 perhaps. StiU, Remsen's a big man, you know . . . 
 and the Stein people are talking a lot about their ketchup 
 not having any benzoate in it." 
 
 "No, I don't refer to the advertising. I mean . . . 
 why not quit using benzoate ourselves?" 
 
 Gresham stared at me. "Why — what's got int« you?" 
 he said finally, more curious than annoyed. 
 
 "Well . . . benzoate can't do any good — ^to the 
 consumer . , . and it may . . ." 
 
 203 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "May what?" he interrupted sharply. "Hasn't the 
 Remsen board declared it harmless?" 
 
 "But a lot of other chemists have disagreed. At least 
 you will admit that there's a difference of opinion. Why 
 not be on the safe side?" 
 
 "My dear young man." Gresham was patient, but 
 there was just a hint of annoyance in his tone. "If a 
 board composed of some of the biggest chemists in this 
 country — one of them President of Johns Hopkins Uni- 
 versity — decides that benzoate as a preservative is harm- 
 less, isn't it just a bit . . . presumptuous . . . 
 for you or me to discount its decision? You can't ques- 
 tion either the ability or the impartiality of those men." 
 
 "Quite true," I said, "but big men have made mistakes 
 before. And in this case, there are big men on the other 
 side. At best there is a difference of opinion. Why not 
 play safe? It'll make a splendid drawing card for our 
 advertising!" I added, enthusiastically. 
 
 "... and increase our expense!" said Gresham 
 grimly. "No, my boy, you mustn't be quixotic in this 
 matter." 
 
 "But see here, Mr. Gresham," I cried, " ... do 
 you use Green Label Ketchup on your own table?" 
 
 Gresham laughed. "That's like the man who went 
 into a restaurant and asked if the proprietor was in, and 
 one of the waiters said, 'No, he's out to lunch.' " 
 
 204 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 "Seriously, though," I pursued my point, "do you use 
 it at home?" 
 
 Gresham looked just a trifle uncomfortable. "Oh, come 
 now, that is hardly a fair question. A man isn't obliged 
 to use everj^hing he sells, is he? Woolworth probably 
 doesn't furnish his house from his Five and Ten Cent 
 Stores." 
 
 "That's beside the point, Mr. Gresham. Green Label 
 is the best ketchup that can be made . . . except 
 for that benzoate. If you don't use it at home, it's because 
 of the benzoate, and nothing else. Isn't that so?" 
 
 Gresham leaned back and put his thumbs in his waist- 
 coat. Then he smiled quizzically. 
 
 "Chandos, I thought you had been here long enough to 
 know more about business than you do. But apparently 
 you haven't gotten the business view-point even yet. 
 Now look here — Green Label may be the best ketchup 
 on the market. But / know — and you know — that it's 
 a devil of a long way from being the best ketchup that 
 can be made. The consumer wants a hundred cents' 
 worth of value in every dollar's worth of ketchup — and 
 everything else — ^that he buys. And the manufacturer 
 is going to give him just as much less than a hundred cents 
 as he can — and still sell the goods. It's the difference 
 between those two figures that makes his profit. I'm not 
 in business for charity nor for fun, you know. I'd cut 
 the value of that ketchup in half, if I thought it would 
 
 205 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 sell to the same extent. And I don't propose to increase 
 the value, or decrease the cost of manufacture and sale, 
 unless there is a corresponding increase in the profit. And 
 regardless of whether cutting out benzoate would increase 
 the value, it certainly wouldn't increase the profit. There's 
 your answer. You want to lose these sentimental notions 
 about business, Chandos. The magazines are full of them 
 nowadays, and young men are apt to lose their heads. Men 
 are in business to make money, now and forever . . . 
 and don't you forget it!" 
 
 With that he turned to his work, and I left him, to write 
 some copy extolling the innocuous virtues of benzoate. 
 
 So men were in business to make money, and any other 
 notion was "sentiment!" Any bolt-polishing that did 
 not show a tangible profit was "sentiment." Well, that 
 idea certainly had the sanction of numerous adherents 
 . . . but it was wrong. In my heart of hearts I knew 
 it was wrong. But what could I do — a mere wage slave? 
 I had to do what my master bade me. But the day would 
 come . . . well, contemplation of the future was 
 profitless, and therefore sentimental. I had best adjust 
 myself to the unideal present. 
 
 And yet Gresham was a subscriber to numerous charities. 
 His armual donation to St. Luke's Hospital, alone, was 
 several times as large as my salary. I knew from several 
 reliable sources that he was always prompt to alleviate 
 suffering. His daughter had often told me of his generous 
 
 206 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 cheques to their church. It was hard to reconcile the 
 two sides of the man. It was the same enigma that I had 
 seen in Keppy. 
 
 But his words regarding the quality of Green Label 
 Ketchup made me look upon our other products with a 
 new interest and understanding. I had, of course, by 
 reason of my position, known all the details of manufac- 
 ttu-e; but I had rather taken them as a matter of course. 
 Now I began to resent them. 
 
 I fell to taking frequent trips of inspection through the 
 factory, and seeing, with pretematurally acute vision, 
 wherein things could be improved. These things, of 
 covu-se, I never brought to the attention of Mr. Gresham, 
 because they all meant an increase of expense . . . 
 and no "corresponding increase of profit." I never forgot 
 what he was in business for. 
 
 But as I studied the inner workings of the plant, I saw 
 many ways in which the methods of manttfacture could be 
 cheapened. I took to spending my evenings with Taylor 
 and Emerson and the other exponents of naanufactviring 
 eflSciency. And whenever I saw a practicable oppor- 
 tunity to cut cost, I explained it to my employer. The 
 result was that when McCarthy, the general manager, 
 was taken ill, I was allowed tacitly to assume his duties. 
 
 narrower made no sign that he had noticed any change 
 in my work, or that he anticipated any results from it: 
 but I noticed that he had quite ceased his occasional con- 
 
 207 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 versational visits to my office, and that he no longer asked 
 me to Itmch with him. There were no more visible signs 
 of hostility on his part, but I would have been indeed obtuse 
 not to sense his deepening animosity toward me. I 
 aCected however, not to notice an3^thing untoward in his 
 treatment of me, and threw mj^self with greater zest into 
 my work. 
 
 The work of the advertising department had been 
 largely standardized, and so I was able to leave most of 
 it to my subordinates, maintaining merely a supervision- 
 Thus I was left free to develop the ideas that had been 
 germinating in my mind, concerning the manufacturing 
 end of the business. The other phase — selling and dis- 
 tributing — ^I had long been familiar with. 
 
 I found myself acqtiiiing a deepening fascination for the 
 apparently iminteresting details of factory management. 
 The limitiess opportunities for doing things better gave 
 full scope for all the "creative instinct" that a man could 
 possess, and I derived as much pleasure from working 
 out improvements on a can-soldering machine as I ever 
 had had from painting a picture. And in the Life that 
 made those machines go, that watched, and tended, and 
 fed them, there was fuH play for all my long-dormant 
 sympathy with humanity. 
 
 It was this latter interest that got me into disa^eement 
 with Mr. Gresham a second time. 
 
 In my work as superintendent, I had occasion to be 
 2oS 
 
PROMOTION— AkD A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 on my feet most of the time; and I noticed at night that 
 I was very much more tired than I had ever been when I 
 toiled at a desk. It was with tremendous relief that I 
 sought surcease in an arm-chair from the dull dragging 
 pains about the small of the back which had come on 
 during the afternoon. And that personal experience of 
 discomfort made me look upon the workers in the factory 
 with new sympathy. So I went to the President. 
 
 "I think I see another way of increasing efficiency," I 
 said diplomatically. These suggestions of mine were 
 usually in the nature of economics in material, or speeding 
 up labor; and I knew that Gresham would be prepared to 
 Usten. But at my next words the interest left his eyes — 
 
 "Those women ought to have seats. Some of them 
 have to stand up all day, you know, and it must be pretty 
 hard on them." 
 
 "My dear Chandos," said Gresham, with the note of 
 exasperation that had lurked in his voice at the time ©f 
 our benzoate controversy. "You don't want to pamper 
 those people." 
 
 "I'm not pampering them. But I never understood 
 their position tmtil I've had to stand up myself. I tell 
 you, it's no fun to be on your feet for ten hours." 
 
 "Just remember that they're a very different class from 
 you. You or L couldn't stand it, of course — ^but look at 
 those girls. They're husky peasants . . . they're 
 built for naanual labor. Why, my dear boy, they'd think 
 
 209 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 you were crazy if they knew you were pit5riag them!" He 
 laughed indulgently. 
 
 "I don't care whether the5r're peasants or not. They're 
 human beings . . . and they're women. And I 
 know that they do suffer." My voice must have revealed 
 some of the irritation I felt; for his manner seaned to 
 show an effort to pacify me. 
 
 "Oh, come now, Chandos. You're off on your old senti- 
 mentality again. This won't do, you know." 
 
 "Has my sentimentality, as you call it, been profitable, 
 or has it not, since I've been doing McCarthjr's work?" 
 I demanded with some heat. 
 
 "That's why I hate to see you slip this way," he smiled. 
 
 "Then you refuse to put in seats?" 
 
 "WeU— really, I . . ." 
 
 "Listen to this, then — " I played my last card. "I 
 found a woman today who's likely to have a child any 
 minute. She ought to be in bed. I had to drive her 
 home. She cried because she said she needed the 
 money. I laid her off by force . . . had to . . ." 
 (I did not tell him that I had given her ten dollars. He 
 would have wanted her name, so he could give her fifty 
 . . . although he would not think of paying her wages 
 during her enforced absence!) "They may be a husky lot 
 of draft-horses . . . but you mustn't overlook the 
 fact that they are mares." 
 
 2IO 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 He bit his lip, and I think an angry retort trembled on 
 it. I did not hesitate to press my advantage — 
 
 "Then I can put them in?" 
 
 He nodded, but said nothing. I ventured to go fur- 
 ther — 
 
 "The air in the label room is very bad," I said as calmly 
 as I could. "I think we'd better put ventilators in 
 . . . it's an inside room, you know . . ." 
 
 "Chandos," Qresham's voice was low, but it was 
 obvious that he was suppressing a very considerable 
 annoyance. "Some day it may dawn upon you that this 
 is not an eleemosynary institution. Until then, I sup- 
 pose, you'll be constantly endeavoring to break the Com- 
 pany." 
 
 "Then it's all right to put the ventilators in?" 
 
 He looked at me for a minute without replying, twisting 
 his mustache thoughtfully. I surmised that he was trying 
 to control and conceal his growing irritation. 
 
 "Put in anjrthing you've got a mind to . . . don't 
 count the cost!" he snapped sarcastically. 
 
 I did not wait to hear more, and I escaped before he 
 could retract his concession. I had intended to ask per- 
 mission to paint the label room, too; but I feared that 
 that would prove the final straw. I was sufficiently satis- 
 fied to have done as well as I had. 
 
 McCarthy was more dangerously ill than any of us had 
 suspected, and one day there came the news of his death. 
 
 211 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 That afternoon I was smnmoned to the President's private 
 ofiBce. 
 
 Mr. Gresham looked at me in a curioudy bewildered 
 fashion when I came in, and said nothing for quite a little 
 while. 
 
 "Chandos — " he began finally. Then he stared out of 
 the window, and fell to tearing a bit of paper into minute 
 strips. That was a habit I knew to indicate important 
 matters. "Chandos ... it was a good day for this 
 concern when Keppy fired you." 
 
 "It was a good day for me," said I, wondering what 
 might be forthcoming. 
 
 "You've gone up like a rocket out here . . . and 
 you've gone up on your own powder." He spoke as if 
 to himself, and there seemed no reason for me to speak. 
 "I wonder if you've got some more powder in you," he 
 continued. 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't quite vmderstand," I said. 
 
 "FranMy," he went on reflectively, "you're a puzzle to 
 me . . . a big one. You're a puzzle in the same way 
 my daughter is. I don't quite imderstand either of you. 
 In her case I consider it a simple case of youth — but in 
 yours . . . well, I'm hanged if I know what to think 
 of it!" 
 
 "Why do I puzzle you?" 
 
 Gresham latched. "That's the very question I ask 
 myself. Why do you? Somehow, I . . . don't just 
 
 212 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 . . . trust you." My face must have fallen, for he 
 hastened to add, with a smile. "Oh — not the way you 
 think. It isn't that I don't think you're honest . . . 
 the trouble is, I have a fear that you're too honest . . . 
 altogether too honest. You make me feel that there's 
 something wrong with me . . , somewhere. And no 
 man likes to have that sort of an employee about him. 
 Frankly, Chandos — " He leaned forward, and the smile 
 faded from his face, "I'd fire you in a minute ... if 
 I could afford to!" 
 
 I coughed in embarrassment, and I must have reddened. 
 But I said nothing — there was nothing to say. He went 
 on presently. 
 
 "I can't fire you. I've got to promote you, instead. 
 You're holding down McCarthy's job nominally, and I'm 
 afraid I've got to make it official. If there was another 
 man in the plant that I could put into the place — I'd do 
 it. But there isn't. There's Harrower, of covirse. He's 
 able and he's honest. I think he understands me better 
 than you do. And I'm more certain of the way he's going 
 to jump. He's more reliable than you . . . but he's 
 so damned reliable he'd be rtuining to me every hour to 
 find out what I wanted. My time's too valuable to give 
 him the place. No, Chandos, there's no other way 
 out of it — I've got to make you General Manager of this 
 company . . . and I tell you candidly, I never 
 wanted to do anything less!" 
 
 213 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 I tried to express my amazement at this curious speech, 
 but there were no words available. Gresham leaned 
 back and lit a cigar. 
 
 "I suppose you think I'm a little out of my head," he 
 said quizzically, as the smoke began to drift upward and 
 add itself to the accumulated dirt of years on the ceiling. 
 "But I'm not. You're an able chap, Chandos, and you 
 get ahead because you deliver. But hitherto you've 
 always been an underling. You haven't had a chance to 
 make the trouble that I'm convinced is in you to make. 
 In putting you into this job I'm taking the biggest chance 
 I ever took in my life. I feel as if I was gambling on my 
 ownfuttire. If I lose . . . one or the other of us is 
 going to have to get out of this business." He paused for a 
 moment, and smoked thoughtfully. "The trouble with 
 you, Chandos, is that you've got a queer streak of senti- 
 mentality in you. As long as you keep it down, and hold 
 your nose to the work in hand, you're a world-beater. | But 
 you've got a tendency toward dreaming. If you let that 
 get the best of you — and I let you let it — ^you'll not only 
 break yourself, but you'll break me. And I haven't built 
 up this business, and spent my life doing it, to let any man 
 come along and knock the whole thing down . . ." 
 
 There was another long pause, during which he stared 
 at me fixedly. 
 
 "You're practically the whole Gresham Food Products 
 Company from now on. And you've got just two things 
 
 214 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 to think about. One is to make our products for the least 
 money, and the other is to sell 'em for the most. Every- 
 thing you do has to contribute to one of those two things. 
 You're not going to spend any money on the down-trodden 
 help, and you're not going to spend any on the dear public. 
 You can worry and philosophize to your heart's content 
 about them both . . . but you aren't going to let 
 your worrying cost ihe stockholders of this corporation 
 real money. Just tack this up beside your alarm clock 
 — ^that you're put in the position of G. M. for the sole, 
 single, and solitary purpose of increasing dividends. If 
 the stockholders want charity, they can attend to that for 
 themselves. I wonder if you understand all that I'm 
 driving at?" 
 
 "Mr. Gresham, I would have to be very considerably 
 less intelligent than you believe me to be not to under- 
 stand you perfectly. There is no doubt in my mind as 
 to your meaning." 
 
 "Good!" Gresham held out his hand. "And I hope 
 that you won't feel that there was an37thing of a personal 
 nature in what I said. Outside of business hours I'm 
 intensely interested in yotu* ideas. I want you to feel 
 that up at the house you have full play for aU your senti- 
 mentalizing. But in the factory . . ." 
 
 "... I'm a machine?" 
 
 "Precisely. As long as you remember that, there won't 
 be anything here that's too good for you." 
 
 215 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 I left him then. The exposition of his attitude had been 
 too pellucid to require ftu-ther words, and its perfect sin- 
 cerity had completely eliminated any possibility of resent- 
 ment. He had simply stated the terms upon which he 
 paid me a salary. In working hours he paid for my 
 thoughts — and paid for them generously. I could not 
 quarrel with him for demanding the kind and quality of 
 goods for which he paid. Were our positions reversed, 
 I would do exactly the same. The mere fact that what he 
 demanded was in my eyes fundamentally wrong could 
 not alter the justice of the demand. 
 
 I felt curiously like a machine as I left his office. The 
 soul of the new General Manager had already become 
 automatically responsive to the demands of dividends. 
 Prom now on, it was to be concentrated on just one thing. 
 Everything else was for leisure hours. Gresham made 
 money to spend it on his daughter, on motors, fine houses, 
 opera boxes, social prestige: I made it to spend on . . . 
 free thinking. It was the law of the world. Make your 
 money as you can — spend it as you will. I could not 
 quarrel with Cosmos. 
 
 That same afternoon I took my first official tour of 
 inspection of the entire plant. With me I carried a note- 
 book, and in it I jotted down everything I saw that might 
 be advantageously changed or corrected. And when I 
 got home that night, I copied these jottings into another 
 book — ^in two parallel columns. In one, looking it over 
 
 216 
 
PROMOTION— AND A SENTIMENTAL SPLIT 
 
 now, I find such remarks as "lockers," "ventilation sys- 
 tem," "reading and rest rooms," "shower baths," "level- 
 ling and cleaning the vacant lot on the comer for a ball 
 field," "painting interior of plant white," "knock in some 
 windows on south side of packing -room," "rebuild 
 rotten stairways," and so on, for several pages. 
 
 In the other column I find such notes as "charge up 
 label wastage to help," "standardize box sizes to avoid 
 lumber wastage," "put stenographers in separate room, 
 and use dictaphones," "cut down pencil wastage," and 
 so on . . . for several more pages. 
 
 It was the second column that went with me to the 
 factory next morning. The first one remained at home 
 . . . to be used in leisure hours. 
 
 217 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 AN obstinate break-down on my pet soldering 
 machine kept me late at the factory one night, 
 supervising its repairs, so that it would be ready 
 for work on the morrow. It was after nine when I was 
 finally able to get away, and a painfully empty stomach 
 made me hurry. 
 
 As I stood waiting for my car, I heard a thin voice 
 behind me, whining, wheedling — 
 
 "Out for a good time, dearie? . . ." 
 
 It was a salutation new perhaps in words, but old as 
 time in spirit, and I did not turn my head. But there 
 was a wistful something in the voice, as if the speaker was 
 not wholly brazen. And so, when the query was repeated, 
 I looked around. 
 
 She was a slender little thing, very young, dressed in 
 the style of her sisters on the Lake Shore Drive — tan 
 shoes, a white striped tailor suit of blue, a bit of lace 
 thrown over one breast, a low collar, exposing the thin- 
 ness of her neck, and a bucket-shaped hat, well down over 
 her face. A block away she would have looked completely 
 in the mode. But close at hand, the exaggeration of 
 everything, its obvious tawdriness, revealed her station 
 
 218 
 
THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 plainly. The feather in her hat was just a trifle too loi^, 
 her skirt just a trifle too short, and the lace on her breast 
 just a trifle too large. 
 
 But it was the face that made me, having glanced once, 
 glance again. I have lived in the world too long, and 
 known too many women, to put much faith in faces. 
 But the woman of the streets cannot ply her trade for 
 long without acquiring an indefinable something, a varnish 
 over her emotions that seems to extend to her face; and 
 this girl's eyes had a tendency to drop as they looked at 
 me. She appeared to lack practice in the art of with- 
 standing the inspection of amorous males. 
 
 She was pretty, too — in a vacuous, frail, unhealthy 
 way. And at my stare she smiled furtively, revealing 
 teeth that shone brilliantly under the arc light. It was 
 a smile more of friendliness than of invitation, and it 
 seemed to waver between wistfulness and shame. The 
 experienced jUle de joie is neither wistful nor shamefaced, 
 and there is no mistaking her ingratiating smile for one 
 of mere friendliness. It is like as not to bear evidence 
 of all the hate she bears your sex. It is a curiously wolfish 
 expression, and it cannot rightly be called a smile, any 
 more than the grin that comes over the face of a preda- 
 tory animal when it bares its fangs for attack, can be 
 called a smile. 
 
 I was interested, therefore, in this young girl more for 
 what she seemed not to be, than for what she plainly was. 
 
 219 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 It was an inexplicable curiosity that impelled me to forget 
 all thought of my empty stomach and follow her into the 
 shadow of a doorway. 
 
 "Hello, kid," I said jovially, in an effort to disann 
 suspicion. 
 
 She smiled at me, and brought her body up close to 
 mine. Just then a car passed, throwing some of its 
 radiance into the darkness of the doorway. The girl 
 jumped as if she had been shot, and started to run. But 
 I caught her by the wrist. 
 
 "What's the matter?" I demanded, amazed at the 
 obvious terror in her expression. She hung her head at 
 my question, and said nothing. I had to repeat it. She 
 mtmmured something that I could not catch, and still 
 tried to drag herself away from my grasp. Her behavior 
 was curious in the extreme. Then another car passed, 
 again throwing her face momentarily into light. Some- 
 thing stirred in my memory. 
 
 "I'tc seen you before?" I asked. She nodded her head. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 I could understand only one word of her answer, but 
 it was enough. Of course I had seen her before. She 
 was one of the label girls at the factory. That explained 
 her sudden terror-stricken start when she recognized me. 
 
 "Come on," I said, when she began to weep dismally. 
 "This is no place to talk ... I want you to take me 
 home." Her feather drooped like a dead thing when we 
 
 220 
 
THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 started off, as if it had partaken of the misery of its wearer. 
 I could feel the poor child tremble in my grasp, but I did 
 not let go. I feared a possible flight, and some purposeless 
 interest in this unhappy waif made me anxious to learn 
 her story. 
 
 "Now," I said as gently as I could, when we were in a 
 dark side-street, with few passers-by, "been at this game 
 long?" 
 
 She shook her head. "Only a few weeks," she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 "What do you do it for?" I asked with sublime banality. 
 
 All her terror seemed to vanish at that question, and she 
 straightened up in angry defiance. 
 
 "Wot yer goin' to do . . . preach t' me?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 "Not in the least," I assured her. "You're pla5ring 
 what strikes me as a foolish game, and I'd just like to 
 know what you play it for?" 
 
 "I love t' hear youse guys talk," she said with a sneer 
 that I felt rather than saw, for the darkness. Then, of a 
 sudden, her manner seemed to change, and I could hear 
 her whimper — "Please, Mr. Chandos . . . it's be- 
 cause ... I need the money!" She broke down 
 completely, then, and I had to stop until she could control 
 her fit of sobbing. I noticed a policeman on the comer 
 eyeing us curiously, and then start in our direction. 
 Visions of a possible scandal made me shake the sniveling 
 
 221 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 girl by my side, roughly. The word "copper" seined to 
 silence her magicall}-, and we made o& in the opposite 
 direction from the officer. 
 
 "Which way is your home?" I asked, as we hxinied 
 along. 
 
 "Oh please, Mr. Chandos . . . please . . ." 
 She gag)ed and clutched at my aim. 'Tlease don't take 
 me hosiK. You don't know ... If my father knew 
 . . . why ... if he knew what I'd been doin' 
 . . . he'd kill me . . . honest t' God he would. 
 You don't know 'im !" Her terror was plainly not feigned. 
 
 "Well,"' I said, trying to be gentle. "Where does he 
 think you are at this hour of the night?" 
 
 "I told 'em at home that I'd be doin' overtime at the 
 factory." 
 
 "That amplifies it, then. I've been at the factory 
 . . . I brought you home. Easy, isn't it?" 
 
 She stopped momentarily, and looked at me curiously. 
 "Say, Mr. Qiandos . . . excuse me for askjn' . . 
 but what do you want with me, anyhow?" 
 
 It was a legitimate querj'. What did I want with her? 
 Would she understand if I told her the impulse that had 
 made me speak to her? I took the chance — 
 
 ' 'I spoke to you in the first place, because I felt sorry 
 for you . . ." 
 
 "Humph! . . ." She stiffened instantly. 
 
 "You didn't look like the sort of girl you were trying to 
 
THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 lcx)k like. I figured that you weren't bad . . . only 
 jtist foolish — and ignorant. Come now . . . er, — 
 what is your name?" 
 
 "Kitty." 
 
 "Kitty what?" 
 
 "Doyle." 
 
 "Well, Kitty," I went on, floundering in my words, not 
 knowing in the least what to say, yet with a very earnest 
 desire to present to this unfortunate child the truth in 
 such a way that she would accept it. It is exceedingly 
 difficult to moralize with a person who knows you are 
 right, but would rather die than admit it. "Can't you 
 see that this sort of a life has only one ending?" 
 
 "What's that?" she asked dully. 
 
 "You know it perfectly well. You've got a clear skin 
 and clear eyes now . . . but you know without my 
 teUing you, how long you'll have them if you go on in 
 this sort of a way. There's nothing in it, child . . . 
 only misery and unhappiness and regrets. You're respect- 
 able now . . . and your father and mother . . . 
 haven't you any care about them?" 
 
 "They don't need to know nothin' about it," she said, 
 sullenly. 
 
 "Not now, perhaps. But you can't keep on this way 
 forever, you know. And your friends ... do you 
 want to lose them?" 
 
 She laughed mirthlessly. "They're all like me." 
 223 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 I was aghast. "Do you mean that . . . many of 
 the factory giris ... do this sort of thing? . . ." 
 
 "Sore. An' you can't blame 'em. How's a giri goin' 
 to have any fan with wot she gets at th' factor].-? She 
 can't keep body and soul tt^ether, hardly . . . less 
 she gets somethin' on the side . . ." 
 
 "What do you get, for instance ... at the fac- 
 tory?" I demanded- 
 
 "Six doDais a week. An' lemme tdl ye, that don't go 
 very fer wen yer father's laid up. an' y^s- kid brothas 
 ain't big 'nough to woric. The bi^est one — ^Hany — 
 ahiKis' got a job fer four a week, but they caught him at 
 it, 'cause he was under age . . ." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that you support the family 3-our- 
 sdf ... on six dollars a week?" 
 
 "Naw, the kids sdls japers, and there's a kike, Joe 
 Lipsky . . . he boards with us. 
 
 "It's no dnch, though, I can teU you," my companion 
 went on drearily. "Ma picks up somethin' washin', but 
 she ain't strong, and besides, she's gotta stay hcnnetakin' 
 care of pa. It'd be a blesan' if he could be tak^i o£. I 
 ain't so keen on this here . . ." There was an expres- 
 sive pause. "... that I couldn't quit, but gee, I 
 don't know what I'd do if I didn't make somethin' on the 
 side. All the girls does it . . . Why, I know a girl 
 what works in one <d the department stores down-town, 
 
 224 
 
THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 an' she says they won't take nobody on that ain't kept. 
 They tell ye t' git a man when ye ask fer a raise." 
 
 "But," I cried, trying to keep my feet on a ground that 
 seemed to be slipping away in appalling fashion. I was 
 shocked at the logic of her attitude. "There are girls 
 who don't get any more than you do . . . They keep 
 straight." 
 
 She sneered bitterly. "Yes — an' look at 'em. Look at 
 the way they dress. Never have any fun . . . Fel- 
 lows won't go with 'em. I'd rather be like I am than be 
 like them." 
 
 "But . . ." 
 
 "Here's our place," she interrupted abruptly. The 
 "place" was a wretched shanty, tinpainted for years, 
 looking as if some clumsy-fingered giant had patched it 
 up out of odds and ends, and then, in disgust, thrown it 
 down on the ground from a great height. The naiserable 
 collection of boards looked as if a strong wind would write 
 finis to its history. 
 
 "You ain't comin' in . . ?" She said on the steps. 
 A sudden curiosity possessed me to see the inside of the 
 dwelling, to find out if that were possibly worse than its 
 exterior. All more rational thoughts were swept away 
 in my desire to learn more of the environment of the 
 imfortunate girl standing warily before me. 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I think I'll come in for a moment." 
 
 The only light in the sitting room, when we entered, 
 
 225 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 came from a small lamp, standing on a table in the comer 
 wUch was co\'ered with a tattered red doth. Bedde it 
 sat a man who appeared to be at least a hundred years old, 
 so bent and twisted was his body, so seamed his face. He 
 looked np, unsmiling, at our entrance. 
 
 "Hlo, Pa . . . thisisMr.Chandos . . . He's 
 manager at the fact'ry. He took me home . . ." 
 
 "Yes," I said pleasantly, although I felt decidedly 
 uncomfortable under the unwinking stare of the old man. 
 "We were both kept over-time, tonight, and as I was com- 
 ing this way, why — ^I brought j'our daughter home with 
 me, you see." 
 
 The old man said nothing. A couple of small children 
 stood blinking at me from the other ade of the table. Then 
 the girl turned to me and shrugged her shoulders, as if 
 to say — "You'\'e seen everything — said everything — 
 please go." So I turned to leave. As I did so, I noticed 
 a stout, heavy-faced woman, standing in the door-way 
 which led into the other room, and ejreing me suspiciously. 
 One of the children ran to her skirts, and added his silent 
 inspection to her's. It made me very uncomfortable. 
 
 "I am Mr. . . ." 
 
 "I heard wot ye said," she interrupted unenthusiastic- 
 ally. "We're obliged t' ye." 
 
 I bowed, gave the girl a last glance, and turned once 
 more to take my departure. I was in the hall, when the 
 
 336 
 
THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 large woman was pushed aside, and a startled voice called 
 to me — 
 
 "Harlan . . . wait!" 
 
 I turned. Never in my life, I think, have I experienced 
 more surprise than was crowded into that one glance. I 
 stood there, my jaw hanging, oblivious to everything in 
 the dismal room, save the face that peered in bewilder- 
 ment at me over the shoulder of the woman in the door- 
 way. I caught myself quickly, although I was subse- 
 quently informed that for a pause of fully a minute I had 
 appeared to have lost all power of speech. 
 
 "Dorothy! . . . What are you doing here?" I 
 think my voice must have carried an injured note. I felt, 
 vaguely, as though she had been spying upon me; and the 
 equivocal nature of my position, which I had not felt 
 particularly in the presence of Kitty's family, was now 
 borne upon me most painfully. 
 
 "The car is here," she said, instead of answering my 
 question. "Can't I take you home?" 
 
 I could only nod my acquiescence, and after brief fare- 
 wells to the Doyles, in which I played an all but silent part, 
 we took our leave. 
 
 I managed to be the first to speak, when we had reached 
 the motor — ^which, to explain my failure to note it, was 
 found some distance down the street. 
 
 "What were you doing there ... at this hour?" 
 I demanded accusingly. 
 
 227 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 "They belong to Agnes Streatham," she said cheerfully, 
 "She couldn't go today, and as the littlest boy's birthday 
 is tomorrow, she wanted to have his toys there ready for 
 him when he woke up. I was just helping to put him to 
 bed when you came in. I suppose it was rather foolish 
 to go there at this time of night . . • but it'll make 
 aU the difference in the world to that little chap — whether 
 he finds his toys on his bed tomorrow morning or not, you 
 know. So I just went. But for heaven's sake, don't tell 
 Dad! He'd have a fit!" 
 
 "Not a word," I promised. 
 
 "But will you tell me," she went on, "how in the world 
 you happened to take that girl home? I don't suppose 
 you guessed it — ^but the old people weren't very pleased. 
 They suspect that Kitty's a bit wild, you see, and . . ." 
 
 "... they looked on me as contributing to her 
 delinquency, eh?" I finished for her. 
 
 "Oh, hardly that . . ." She was a trifle embar- 
 rassed. "But — ^well, you must know what they think 
 of the handsome stranger, with his dashing city ways." 
 
 "I suppose I shouldn't have gone in with her, but I was 
 curious to see what sort of a place it was." 
 
 "That was a lie about bringing her home from the 
 works, wasn't it?" asked Dorothy suddenly, with those 
 acute perceptions of her sex, that never fail to startle me. 
 
 "Oh — why — no . . . how could you . . • why 
 228 
 
THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 should I lie?" I stammered, feeling very uncomfortable 
 under her cool scrutiny. 
 
 "Where did you find her?" Plainly my denials had had 
 but little weight. 
 
 "Why really, Dorothy— I . . ." 
 
 "Oh please, Harlan . . . How many times have I 
 told you that I don't want to be wrapped up in cotton. 
 You don't have to evade the truth with me. Tell me 
 where you picked that girl up ... or where she 
 picked you up?" 
 
 I had the instinctive reticence of my sex at telling 
 women unpleasant truths) when they concern them. And 
 although I enjoyed an unusual kind of intimacy with 
 Dorothy, and had learned to discuss with her things not 
 generally considered available topics for conversation 
 between the sexes, I had never been able completely to 
 rid myself of a certain embarrassment at their entrance. 
 So I stammered and equivocated a trifle as I confessed the 
 circumstances surrounding my introduction to Kitty 
 Doyle. 
 
 "It's a shame, isn't it," she said thoughtfully, when I 
 had finished my brief narrative, "a sort of contradiction 
 of civilization. But how can a woman — a pretty girl 
 like that — so lower herself? It is too disgusting. I can't 
 imderstand it." 
 
 "But they don't lower themselves entirely from choice, 
 you know," I said softly. 
 
 229 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "Pretty nearly. She and her family are not so poor 
 as that. It isn't necessity that makes her lead a life of 
 that sort. There must be some moral twist in her. She 
 oughtn't to be scorned, surely, but on the other hand she 
 oughtn't to be pitied or condoned, either. She's a case 
 for an alienist — a physician." 
 
 "Then you think God ... or the devil . . . 
 is responsible for her?" I asked, a little belligerently. 
 
 "In a way — ^yes. She's no more responsible herself 
 than is one who is bom club-footed, or hair-lipped, or 
 blind. I don't know why such things are, but I do know 
 that the unfortunate victims can't be blamed. There 
 was a time when insane people were beaten and scourged. 
 Of course we've progressed beyond that. We treat them 
 scientifically, now. And some day we'll do the same for 
 unfortimates like Kitty." 
 
 I had myself developed a certain theorem regarding 
 Kitty Doyle, and I was not disposed to see it ignored like 
 this without at least a struggle. "The trouble with you, 
 Dorothy," I said polemically, "is that you look on the 
 situation as a moral — a pathologic one . . ." 
 
 "Oh, not moral—" 
 
 "You said as much. You spoke of a 'moral twist' — 
 implying some temperamental, physical, irremediable 
 defect in her. I think you're wrong. Kitty treads the 
 broad and dangerous path, not because of something in 
 herself — original sin, the theologians would call it — ^but 
 
 230 
 
THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 from outside pressure. Her folly isn't moral at all . . . 
 it's economic. She sells herself for money." 
 
 "Not in the least !" She was argumentative, too. "She 
 doesn't need money that badly. She has a home, and she 
 has food, and . . ." 
 
 "Then that's all one needs money for, eh? Well . ." 
 I was almost angry. Man's inhumanity to man is the 
 sweetest charity compared to the usual intolerance mani- 
 fested by lovely woman toward her erring sister. "Did 
 you see that breast-plate of near lace she had on? Do 
 you know what that signified? It seemed to me to be 
 the visible symbol of all her very human, very natural, 
 and — by George — ^very desirable — craving for beauty. 
 Man doesn't live by bread alone, you know . . . nor 
 woman either. Because the Lord in his wisdom has put 
 a desire for music and dance, for lights and laughter, into 
 every human breast, without at the same time providing 
 for the satisfaction of those demands, creatures like Kitty 
 Doyle are doomed to be social outcasts." 
 
 "You're eloquent . . . but not convincing," said 
 Dorothy after a pause. 
 
 "Well then, I'll make it personal," I said. "Suppose 
 your motor cars, your pictures, your books, yotu" rugs, 
 your jewels, your opera, your theatres, your dances . . 
 everything you had on earth, with the single exception 
 of enough bad food to keep you alive, and a rather leaky 
 roof over your head . . . Suppose these were all 
 
 231 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 taken away. And suppose your education and ideals 
 were taken with them. And suppose you . . . well, 
 what's the use of supposing further? I tell you frankly, 
 I think you'd be very likely to follow the path that Kitty 
 Doyle has taken. That shows what I think of the doc- 
 trine of inherent goodness or badness." 
 
 There was another long pause between us, and Dorothy 
 turned her head to stare out of the window. ^ 
 
 "I've shocked you, haven't I?" I asked humbly. 
 
 "Indeed you haven't," she cried, turning her face 
 toward me. "I love to have you talk out that way. 
 You're the only man I know who does. It makes me 
 think. You bring things up close when you make them 
 personal that way. I feel as if Kitty were less a bug on a 
 pin . . . more a human being . . . like my 
 glorious self," she added sarcastically. 
 
 "Weil," she said, after a little, "admitting you're right, 
 what are the causes that produce her sort?" 
 
 "You . . . and I . . . and all the world," I 
 said succinctly. 
 
 ' 'Yes — but please be more definite." 
 
 "The people who employ her . . . and whose 
 wives and daughters draw in their skirts at the mere 
 thought of her . . . and the men and women who 
 make the employers prosperous by patronizing them 
 ... oh, we're all in the dock together ... all 
 equally guilty." 
 
 232 
 
THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "How much money does that girl earn, do you suppose?" 
 
 "I don't suppose — I know. She told me. Six dollars 
 a week." 
 
 "My goodness!" Dorothy was thoughtful. "I took 
 MolUe Parker to the matinee today, and to tea at the 
 Blackstone . . . and it cost more than that . . ." 
 
 "But she doesn't get six dollars net," I went on relent- 
 lessly. "She has to turn most of it over to her parents. 
 She hasn't a great deal to spend on pleasure ... or 
 vanity." 
 
 "Pleasure — vanity — ^those words sound differently, 
 somehow, when you use them in this way," she sighed. 
 "They get a bad significance in church." 
 
 "They have an evil meaning attached to them there 
 to keep them out of the vocabularies of people who can't 
 afford such aspirations, and who, if they tried to have 
 them, might upset the social system. Vice and pleasure, 
 evil and vanity aren't synonymous, but Bourbon moralists 
 try to make them seem so. Why, most of — I sometimes 
 think all — of the great things of the world have been in- 
 spired by vanity or a love of pleasure." 
 
 "And yet we all unite in condemnation of an unhappy 
 creature who goes wrong for the same reason that men 
 built the Parthenon?" she asked with a smile that seemed 
 to waver between enthusiasm and incredulity. 
 
 "Exactly. Why do men pay Kitty low wages? So as 
 to gratify their own need of pleasure — ^their own just 
 
 233 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 vanities. There is a subtle form of pandering that we 
 don't always realize. I sometimes think that the man who 
 forces a girl into a life of shame, through keeping her wages 
 down below the vanity point, is no better in the sight of 
 the Lord than the miserable creature who fattens openly 
 on the proceeds of prostitution. The only difference is 
 in the degree of directness. Do you agree with me?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I have to. Your convictions seem so much 
 firmer than miae. But I'd go further. If employers 
 fatten on the shame of their work-people, the emplo3rers' 
 families fatten just as surely, don't they? And if it is 
 done ignorantly, it is wilful ignorance — culpable ignorance 
 —isn't it?" 
 
 "I suppose, in a sense, it is," I admitted. 
 
 "But these employers — ^these cadets of commerce, if I 
 may call them that . . . don't they know what they 
 are doing?" 
 
 "Perhaps. But my dear young lady," I said with a 
 burst of savage cynicism, "you mast not forget that these 
 employers are in business to make money . . . not 
 for eleemosynary purposes." 
 
 "To make money . . . and for what?" she cried 
 with fine scorn. 
 
 "For you," I said very simply. 
 
 "For me? Why . . . what do you mean?" She 
 looked at me open-eyed for several moments, as if study- 
 ing what was in my mind. Then her lips closed firmly, 
 
 234 
 
THE OLDEST TRADE IN THE WORLD 
 
 and I could almost see her forming her resolution, crystal- 
 lizing her suspicions into speech. 
 
 "Harlan . . . where does Kitty Doyle work?" 
 
 "Are you sure you care to know?" 
 
 "If you won't tell me, I shaU ask her." 
 
 This was a d&iouement to my evening's work that I 
 had not anticipated. I felt vaguely disloyal to my em- 
 ployer, and I had a fear, too, that I was in danger of 
 forfeiting his daughter's regard. But I should have fore- 
 seen those dangers earlier. Matters had gone too far 
 to evade the issue now. So I answered as unemotionally 
 as I cotdd — 
 
 "The Gresham Food Products Company." 
 
 She said not a word, and a few minutes later we drew 
 up in front of my boarding house. She shook hands with 
 me as I bade her good-night, and thanked her formally 
 for the transportation, but said nothing on the topic that 
 was uppermost in my mind. 
 
 "Have I offended you?" I asked, as I stood on the curb. 
 
 "She smiled very sweetly. "How long wUl I have to 
 go on telling you, Harlan, that you will never, never offend 
 me by telling me what is sincerely in your heart? You 
 may have hurt me tonight — indeed, you have — ^but it is 
 a hurt for which I can thank you from the bottom of my 
 soul. I think I am much older than I was an hour ago 
 . . . but I'm better, too. Good-night." 
 
 The machine rolled off down the street, and disap- 
 235 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 peared in the darkness. But for a long time I stood star- 
 ing thoughtfully after its receding lights. The passers-by 
 mtist have thought me very interested in that machine 
 — ^but it was the occupant, not the car. And finally, when 
 I turned to go in search of my belated supper, I was still 
 thinking of her. 
 
 236 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LEFT IN COMMAND 
 
 IT was Dame Nattire who put me in actual command 
 of the factory. 
 Mr. Gresham came down to his ofiSce one morning 
 looking as if he had been condemned to sudden execution. 
 Never had I seen him so obviously miserable. He seemed 
 to have aged years overnight, and all his customary jaunti- 
 ness was gone, symbolized by the absence of the flower 
 from his button-hole. About ten minutes after his arrival 
 I was summoned into his oflSce. I went with considerable 
 trepidation, wondering if in some way I had been the 
 cause of his distress. 
 
 I found him staring idly out of the window, a fact which 
 in itself indicated great mental disturbance. On his desk 
 lay a pile of unread letters, and I missed the usual frag- 
 rance of his morning cigar. 
 
 He turned at my entrance, and smiled with a wistful- 
 ness quite foreign to him. 
 
 "HeUow, Chandos ... sit down," he said quietly. 
 "I just called you in to tell you that I'm going away 
 shortly ... to Europe." 
 
 "To Europe?" I was startled, because we were on the 
 237 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 eve of our busiest season. He smiled — a little sadly, it 
 seemed to me. 
 
 "No . . . not pleasure. The fact is I've been a 
 bit ofiE my feed of late, and the doctors tell me I must lay 
 off for a time. I'm going to spend a few months — ^just 
 a rest, you know — ^in Nauheim." 
 
 I knew perfectly well what that locality signified, and 
 it made my expressions of sympathy very real . . . 
 more real than he guessed, doubtless. But he waved 
 them away, characteristically. I think his illness hurt 
 him so keenly because it was the first thing in life he had 
 found himself quite unable to dominate. 
 
 "I don't mind the trip abroad," he said, with an effort 
 at cheerfulness. "But they tell me I've got to leave the 
 factory behind. I don't want to, of course . . . but 
 they've managed to make me see that it's a case of neces- 
 sity." I wondered what dire prognostications it had been 
 necessary to make to force our President to loose his hold, 
 even temporarily, on his business. But I said nothing 
 of my wonder, and he went on, with a note of ironic petu- 
 lance in his voice. "I've got to leave it absolutely behind. 
 They don't even want me to read the newspapers. When 
 you write me you'll have to censor every thing that deals 
 with business. Talk about the weather and philosophy, 
 but be careful not to mention the Gresham Food Products 
 Company ... it might prove fatal. Yes, sir, young 
 
 238 
 
LEFT IN COMMAND 
 
 man . . . you'll be about as liear the whole works 
 as it's possible to be!" 
 
 That last sentence was said half-humorously, but it did 
 not in the least conceal his very real reluctance at being 
 obliged to delegate his authority to others . . . and 
 particularly to me. So I did my best to give him diplo- 
 matic assurances that I would prove reliable. 
 
 For an hour or more we discussed the business outlook, 
 and he expressed his wishes on numerous details of oiu' 
 campaign. As always, I was tremendously impressed 
 by the depth and breadth of his intimacy with all the 
 phases of his business. I have no doubt but what he 
 could have gone into any department, and done its work 
 as well or better than its present director ... an 
 ability that is rare indeed among business heads nowa- 
 days. Finally he stood up and took my hand. 
 
 "There's just one more thing, Chandos," he said 
 gravely. "You are going to be boss in name, aU right 
 . . . but you must see to it that you are boss in fact." 
 
 I did not understand him, and I said as much. 
 
 "The help know me, my boy, and when I'm around 
 they know who's cock of the walk. But they don't know 
 you. And you've got to show them!" 
 
 He left me then, and went around bidding farewell to 
 the different department heads, and whoever else he 
 recognized. Thgre was a vague feeling of sadness among 
 us all, at the old man's departure; but after he had finally 
 
 239 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 left, and I sat at my desk thinking over his iostructicais, 
 and laying my plans for the future, I fell to analyzing the 
 annoying lump that persisted in rising in my throat, and 
 the peculiar gloom that seemed to have settled over every- 
 thing. I was sorry to see the President go, because it 
 hurt him so; for myself I had only feelings of unadulter- 
 ated joy. There would be responsibilities of tremendous 
 weight, to be sure. But there would be freedom to plan, 
 and scope for action, to balance them. I felt like a student 
 released from his master's watchful eye, and allowed for 
 the first time to paint without let or hindrance. But the 
 sense of desolation and loneliness that overwhelmed me 
 was altogether too great to be accounted for by the 
 apparent facts . . . Oh, of cotirse, far down in my 
 consciousness, I knew perfectly well what had shadowed 
 the sun! But I would rather have died than admit it, 
 even to myself. I strove mightily to dismiss the weak 
 thoughts that swarmed jeeringly in my resolution, and 
 turned profanely to my work. 
 
 But that evening found me at the Gresham home . . 
 and I was not there to reiterate my farewells to Mr. 
 Gresham. 
 
 Dorothy took me upstairs to a little room reserved only 
 for her intimates — and only for intimate occasions. Deep, 
 comfortable chairs, subdued hangings, and a low, heavily 
 shaded green lamp conspired to nmke it an ideal location 
 for a t^te-^-t^te. But for some reason I was a long time 
 
 240 
 
LEFT IN COMMAND 
 
 in finding my voice. She was the first one to speak, and 
 she, too, it seemed, was not over-garrulous. , 
 
 "Well . . . and how does it feel to be Commander- 
 in-Chief?" 
 
 "It feels like . . . well, I don't dare use an ade- 
 quate word!" I responded dismally, 
 
 "Why . . . father said he thought you were 
 tickled to death to have him go." 
 
 "That's not true. You see . . . he's not the only 
 one that's going . . ." 
 
 "Oh!" she said softly, as if she had stumbled upon some- 
 thing that she had half expected to find — and half hoped 
 not to. Then there was a long pause between us, punc- 
 tuated by a little ship's clock on the mantel mournfully 
 ringing three bells. 
 
 "I suppose you know that I shall miss you tremen- 
 dously," I said presently. 
 
 "You may think it a strange thing to say . . . but 
 I feel more regret at leaving our little talks than about 
 leaving anything else," she replied, looking down at her 
 hands. "You've helped me to a closer grip on life than I 
 ever had before." 
 
 "We have been good friends, you and I — ^haven't we?" 
 I said thoughtfully. 
 
 "I never believed Platonic friendship possible until I 
 knew you." Her tone was thoughtful, too, and for another 
 pause we sat in revery. 
 
 241 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "You don't think you will fall in love ... on the 
 other side? You won't marry . . . and spoil it all?" 
 I asked, with the feeling that one might have, standing 
 on a floating log in mid-stream. 
 
 "No ... I won't fall in love." Her voice had a 
 surety to it that sent a numbing chill down my spine. 
 I stared at her like a man in a trance. It seemed, of a 
 sudden, that I had never quite realized how really beauti- 
 ful she was; and a fierce longing surged through me to 
 seize her and tell her what I thought. There wasnothing 
 particularly novel about that sensation. I had had it; 
 before . . . many times, ajas! I had had it in my 
 school days . . . and I hacf yielded, just as I had had 
 it — ^and yielded — numerous times since. But on all those 
 other occasions, my sudden gusts of passion had always 
 held a grim reservation. They were temporary — I wanted 
 to crush Her in my arms . . . whoever She might 
 be . . . because She was a WOMAN. I wanted to 
 kiss her . . . and let her go. 
 
 This strange feeling that I had with Dorothy Gresham 
 was different — so much so that it made me catch my 
 breath, as one might in the presence of God . . . 
 Something that one has dreamed about, and philosophized 
 about, and thought he was sure of , all his life . . . and 
 then finds the reality so diflEerent, so much more wonderful, 
 than his expectations. I wanted to kiss her. I never 
 wanted to do anything more in all my life, and never had 
 
 242 
 
LEFT IN COMMAND 
 
 I had a keener desire to kiss a woman . , . but be- 
 hind all that I knew that I wanted a great deal more. Had 
 she been as ugly as the furies, indeed, had she been not 
 a woman at all, but a disembodied spirit, I should have 
 wanted her almost as much. I did not want to pluck the 
 flower, take its honey — ^and then -put it by. I had a 
 feeling that I could not analyze, because it was so far 
 beyond the bounds of my experience. I wanted to let 
 the flower grow, and tend it, and make it more beautiful 
 . . . asking no more than that I might grow beside it. 
 I did not want it for what it might give me of sweetness 
 and joy and light, but for what I might give it. The hot, 
 fierce flame that had illumined my soul vanished as quickly 
 as it had come, and in its place remained a soft radiance, 
 an all-engulfing tenderness. I cannot explain that trans- 
 cendent moment better than by saying that in one mar- 
 vellous instant the scales dropped from my eyes . . . 
 and I imderstood Dante! 
 
 "Dorothy," I said, infinitely more gently than I ever 
 thought I could say it, "I . . ." 
 
 "Miss Dorothy . . ." The butler's voice sounded 
 like a clap of thunder, and I flushed as if I had been de- 
 tected in something dishonorable. She left me then, al- 
 most hastily, I thought, and a few moments later returned 
 with narrower at her heels. 
 
 We greeted each other with a fair semblance of cor- 
 diality, but I suppose he was no less disgusted than I was. 
 
 243 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 Added to this was a queer resentment toward Dorothy 
 herself, as if she had deliberately caused the intrusion 
 . . . my feelings merged into an all-consuming dis- 
 appointment. Of course Harrower had just as clear a 
 title to presence in the company as I had, but at the 
 moment I could not see things so fairly. 
 
 We made a pretense of conversation, but for the most 
 part I was dumb, buried in thoughts of what might have 
 been. The atmosphere of intimacy in the little room had 
 vanished utterly. I could not resurrect it. I could not 
 even try. For alittle while we talkedhaltinglyon indiffer- 
 ent topics, and then, when I could no longer endure the 
 stifling atmosphere that seemed to engulf me, I rose to 
 leave. 
 
 I could not look her in the eyes when I wished her good- 
 bye and Godspeed, and such words as I uttered were 
 stupidly conventional. My gaze was too close to my own 
 misery even to note what might have been her emotions. 
 It was all over very quickly, and I soon found mjrself on 
 the sidewalk, alone with the stars, more completely, more 
 hopelessly, and more inexplicably wretched than I had 
 ever been before, or wiU, I think, ever be again. As I 
 look back on that moment now, from my present security 
 and happiness, a shadow comes over my heart, and I am 
 xniserable again for a moment. Almost all our sorrows 
 and disappointments take on a humorous tinge in retro- 
 
 244 
 
LEFT IN COMMAND 
 
 spect. This one of all the disappointments of my life 
 I find hardest to look back upon and smile. 
 
 The next morning came a peremptory call for my pres- 
 ence in St. Louis, to settle some trouble that had arisen 
 in our branch house there; and when I returned, days 
 earlier than I had any right to, I found the Greshams gone. 
 I was a thimdercloud at my desk that day, and more than 
 one unfortunate suffered for what a girl had done to me. 
 
 At my boarding place I found a note waiting for me. 
 The tears started to my eyes as I read it, and that annoy- 
 ing lump rose again in my throat. 
 
 I will not say good-bye — because that sounds so permanent, 
 and I am really coming back pretty soon. I missed not seeing you 
 — a little more intimately — before we left — ^which I think you must 
 know without my telling you. 
 
 Good luck to you in the factory — and if you should ever dis- 
 cover yourself with time hanging heavy my address is Monroe et 
 Cie. , 7 Rue Scribe, Paris. Till we meet, good friend — 
 
 D. 
 
 P. S. — This is a miserably short note, isn't it? — ^but there is so 
 very much I might say — and cannot — that I must content myself 
 with being suggestive. 
 
 Then I did, quite shamelessly, what I had often sneered 
 at men in books and on the stage for doing ... I 
 kissed that little note, and put it carefully away. 
 
 After that exhibition of crass sentiment, I sat a little 
 while in meditation, the subject of which need not be 
 here set down. And then, after smoking a contemplative 
 cigar, I went peacefully to bed. 
 
 245 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE DRAGON LIFTS HIS HEAD 
 
 ONE of the first discoveries that I made as regent was 
 that I needed a private secretary. My stenog- 
 rapherwascapableenoughasatjrpistjbut I needed 
 someone with more initiative than she possessed to take 
 a large portion of the purely detail work off my shoulders. 
 I expressed this need to Traxler, on one of my periodic 
 visits to the old boarding house, and to my very great 
 astonishment, he rather embarrassedly suggested himself 
 for the place. I do not know why I had not thought of 
 him before. Certainly he was just what I wanted. He 
 was loyal, hard-working, and competent. Without delay 
 he was added to the Gresham Company's payroll — a step 
 that I never regretted. 
 
 He proved invaluable to me. Not only did he assist 
 me tremendously in my routine work, but his genial per- 
 sonality and his faculty for making friends readily proved 
 extremely valuable. He circulated intimately among all 
 the workers in the plant, and matters that never could 
 have come to my attention otherwise, reached me promptly 
 through him. 
 
 That does not mean that he was in any sense a spy. 
 There was nothing underhanded in his nature. It meant 
 
 246 
 
THE DRAGON LIFTS HIS HEAD 
 
 simply that the employes talked to him, quite naturally, 
 with greater freedom than they would to me. He was as 
 loyal to them, too, as he was to me, and nothing in his 
 reports ever bore the slightest hint of tale-bearing. 
 He had been insisting for some time, though I scoffed at 
 the idea, that there was increasing dissatisfaction in the 
 factory. The noon hour, he declared, was given over to 
 all sorts of radical discussion. There was a great deal of 
 soap-box oratory, he told me, and all sorts of upsetting 
 ideas filled the air — ^particularly among the less skilled 
 and unorganized workers. 
 
 It was not long before I was forced to realize that he 
 was right. One morning, a few weeks after the departure 
 of the Greshams, I received an ominous delegation in 
 my office. 
 
 It was made up of Meyerowitz, a tall, oily-haired, black- 
 mustached feUow, a Pole, I think, Weissmann, a blond, 
 heavy-faced German, and Joe Lipsky, the boarder at the 
 Doyles', a slim, wide-eyed, ansemic little Jew. It was he 
 who seemed to be the obvious ringleader. They filed in 
 heavily, and stood before me, sheepishly twisting their 
 caps, until Lipsky got his voice. Then their embarrass- 
 ment seemed to subside, and to change into a kind of 
 defiant belligerence. 
 
 "We have come, Mr. Chandos," began Lipsky bravely, 
 in an accent that plainly indicated his foreign origin, and 
 betraying by the very certainty of his words that they had 
 
 247 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 been very carefully memorized, in preparation for my 
 ogreish prese^nce, "we have come, having been sent by 
 the men of this factory, to lay certain things before you, 
 and hoping sir, that what we have to say may . . . er 
 . . . may . . ." He began to twist his cap, as 
 the remainder of his speech failed him. "We — ^we hope 
 you wiU consider them carefully, sir," he repeated uncer- 
 tainly. 
 
 It was on the tip of my tongue to tell them what I 
 thought of their cowardice in coming to me almost before 
 the echo of Gresham's voice had died from the buildings; 
 but I reflected in time that there would only be angry 
 denial of any deUberate purpose, and doubtless make an 
 ultimate settlement aU the more difficult for me. But 
 my heart was angry as I accepted the document that 
 Lipsky held out to me. 
 
 The three men, still standing, eyed me suspiciously 
 while I perused what had been given me. It was written 
 on a single sheet of paper, in a small and labored hand. 
 
 The demands were five in number, being headed by a 
 general statement to the effect that they represented the 
 cumulative judgment of all the laborers in the employ 
 of the Gresham Food Products Company. These de- 
 mands were as follows: 
 
 (i) An increase of ten per cent in wages. 
 
 (2) A decrease of one hour in the working day. 
 
 (3) Double pay for over-time work. 
 
 248 
 
THE DRAGON LIFTS HIS HEAD 
 
 (4) The Company to deduct each man's union dues 
 from his wages, and pay them direct to the tmion. 
 
 (s) Recognition of the union. 
 
 I read them over several times, trying to make certain 
 of their purport. Then I turned to Lipsky. 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't quite understand all this," I said in 
 as pleasant a tone as I could muster, though I was boiling 
 inwardly at the position in which they had placed me. I 
 clenched my teeth as I recalled Gresham's parting injunc- 
 tion to "show them who's boss." I wotdd, by thunder! 
 But, for the nonce, it was wise to appear conciliatory. 
 
 Lipsky came over beside me, and followed the items 
 with a nervous forefinger. 
 
 "Now what is it you don't understand?" he asked in a 
 patronizing fashion that galled me to the depths of my 
 soul. 
 
 "Well, the first is plain enough, and the second and 
 third. But what's this fourth one about?" 
 
 "Oh, that," he smiled confidently, "that's simple 
 enough. You see, the boys are apt to slip a little on pay- 
 ing their dues — that is one of the difi&culties of unionism 
 — you know how it is, they forget — and first thing you 
 know, their money is all gone. They're broke — there's 
 nothing left for the organization. This little arrangement 
 will fix it so that the union gets the money that's coming 
 to it, sir. You see it?" 
 
 "Yes, that's plain enough, I guess. And now — number 
 249 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 five . . . that means that we're to declare for the 
 closed shop, eh?" 
 
 Lipsky leaned back, and looked at me through half- 
 closed lids. "Oh, well, sir ... I don't know as you 
 would say that, exactly . . ." 
 
 "It isn't exactly that . . . but it amounts to the 
 same thing — is that what you mean?" I asked sarcastic- 
 ally. There was no answer from any of the three. 
 Weissmann looked as if he wanted to say something, but 
 he lacked either words or courage, for he remained silent. 
 
 "Well," I said, after a short pause. "I'll think these 
 over." I turned to resume my interrupted work, quite 
 as if such interviews were an every-day occiuxence. The 
 men, as if glad the ordeal was over, made precipitately 
 for the door. I waited untU they were almost out. 
 
 "Er — ^just a moment, Lipsky," I called after them. He 
 turned and came back. "Suppose," I said judicially, 
 "suppose — after due consideration of your — er — sugges- 
 tions, I should — er — decide to refuse them? What then?" 
 
 The little man looked at me and smiled — not very 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "Well, sir, it would be hard to say . . . but I don't 
 think . . . you'll refuse them . . . I'm sure you 
 won't." His grin was more plainly hostile as he bowed 
 himself out of the office. 
 
 Every few minutes after they had left I found myself 
 drawing that accursed scrap of paper out and studying it. 
 
 250 
 
THE DRAGON LIFTS HIS HEAD 
 
 And I grew more and more angry as its provisions sank 
 into my mind . . . not so much because of the de- 
 mands themselves, as what I believed was the treacherous 
 spirit that had inspired them. I felt — though perhaps 
 unfairly — ^that the men w*-e simply taking advantage 
 of the absence of a master they knew very well they could 
 not intimidate, to use me, whom they thought they could. 
 I was enraged clear through. 
 
 There was only one man I could go to in my dilemma, 
 and much as it hurt my pride to do it, I called Harrower 
 into my oflSce. He sauntered in with the coldness that 
 for a long time had been his settled demeanor toward me, 
 and punctiliously waited for an invitation before he seated 
 himself. 
 
 "Harrower," I said, without any formalities, "read 
 this." And I handed him my Magna Charta. 
 
 He read it with an expressionless face. Then he 
 handed it back to me silently. 
 
 "Well," I said sharply, a little piqued by his manner. 
 "What are we to do about it?" 
 
 "I should think you" — he put a decided accent on the 
 second person — "would throw the damned thing in the 
 waste-basket," he said coldly. 
 
 I ignored his manner entirely. In the crisis that I 
 believed we were headed for, it would not do to permit 
 personal antipathies to interfere with our common loyalty 
 to the interests of our employer. "We can't dismiss it 
 
 2SI 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 that way," I said earnestly. "I have reason to bdieve 
 that this disaffection is extremely widespread. With the 
 rush coming on we can't afford to have any trouble now. 
 Putting the justice of it all aside, we're in a hole. They've 
 got us dead to rights, and they know it. Itll cost us 
 more to have a strike than to pay what they ask." 
 
 "There's something in that," said Harrow^, wanning 
 ever so slightly. The dirty cusses have got us backed up 
 against the wall . . ." 
 
 "I didn't want to take any action without your O. K.," 
 I interrupted diplomaticaUy. "Mr. Gresham ini|^t not 
 approve, and — oh, well, in imion there is strength, you 
 know." 
 
 Hairower waxed almost pleasant. "It isn't a question 
 of whether we want to or not, anyway. It's a case of 
 have to, as I see it." 
 
 "Exactly." , 
 
 "And besides" — his face brightened, "we can give them 
 their ten per cent now — ^when we're up against it — and 
 cut 'em down again when the slack com^." 
 
 I made no answer to that proposal. I saw no need of 
 entering into a discussion of niatters whose decision would 
 probably not be in my hands, and I preferred to keep to 
 the questions at issue. 
 
 "You agree to the raise, then?" I asked. 
 
 "Sure," he said quite cheerfully, lighting a cigarette. 
 "And when we cut it down to normal again, we'll fire the 
 
 252 
 
THE DRAGON LIFTS HIS HEAD 
 
 ducks that stirred up this mess. If only the workman 
 knew it — ^what a damned fool he is to let these paid agita- 
 tors do his thinking for him. Why, I'll bet you can settle 
 the whole business right now by slipping a roll of green 
 into the pockets of their leaders." 
 
 I was angry ac the trouble-makers; but I grew angry at 
 narrower, too, for his insufferable complacency. I did 
 not, however, let him see it. Instead, I hurried on to 
 the next question. 
 
 "How about the double pay for over-time?" 
 
 "Throw it in — I don't think, from the indications, that 
 there's going to be any this year," he laughed cynically. 
 "The factory's been systematized and efficiency-ized so 
 that we can get out everything in the regular hours. 
 We'll grant that — it's easy." 
 
 "And the decrease in the working day?" 
 "Tell 'em to go to hell," said Harrower succinctly. 
 "We're giving them a ten per cent raise — not twenty. 
 Jerusalem! Doesn't it beat all get out, the nerve these 
 fellows have!" 
 
 "Well — aU right — ^but how about these other provisions, 
 implying a closed shop?" 
 
 "Chandos." Harrower rose and brought his fist down 
 on the table. "You may know it, or you may not — I 
 don't think you do, or you wouldn't even have asked the 
 question — that Gresham would rather close this place up, 
 kxik stock and barrel, than have it a closed shop. He 
 
 253 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 hates unionism like the devil hates holy water. I think 
 he'd fire you for so much as suggesting it. You know the 
 fat cheque that goes to the Manufacturers' Association 
 every year — and you can gu^s what it goes for. They've 
 had two strikes here over that question — and the old man 
 won both of them. He Ucked 'em the first time with 
 imported help, and he won the other by starving them out. 
 That's where we've got the bulge on these fellows — we can 
 do without work and they can't. They need us more 
 than we need them." 
 
 "Well, what do you — personally — think about union- 
 ism?" 
 
 "I think it's the worst thing in this country today," 
 said Hanower, firmly. "I'm willing to give in to this 
 demand for more wages — ^that's business. But I'm dead 
 against the closed shop — ^that's principle." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "This is a free country, isn't it? And every mans 
 supposed to have the right to work for whom he pleases, 
 when he pleases, and for what he pleases. The imions 
 take that right away. They say, Here, Bill Jones, you 
 can't work for So-and-so because he doesn't obey our 
 rules. But when Bill doesn't obey So-and-so's rules, he 
 can't be fired, or else all the workmen in the town — men 
 who are contented and who have never heard of Bill Jones 
 and don't give a damn about him, — they'll all qvdt too. 
 Why, I tell you Chandos, tmions are the worst thing this 
 
 254 
 
THE DRAGON LIFTS HIS HEAD 
 
 country ever had to face. They'll simply wreck business 
 before they're through . . . and the poor mutton- 
 head of a workman doesn't see that they're ruination to 
 him, too. He lets a few glib talkers puU the wool over his 
 eyes, and get rich on graft at his expense." 
 
 "All right, then, we'll consider that point settled. Now 
 as to the wage increase. I don't mind saying that I think 
 that the men are perfectly justified in asking it. The cost 
 of living has gone up tremendously, but wages have re- 
 mained at a standstill. They deserve an increase in com- 
 mon fairness." 
 
 Harrower's eyes opened in astonishment, but I affected 
 not to notice, and went on hurriedly. 
 
 "Furthermore, I believe that the women ought to 
 profit, too . . ." 
 
 "But there are more women than men," he interrupted 
 aghast. 
 
 "Perhaps — ^but their wages are proportionately lower. 
 They really need a raise even more. I think they ought 
 to get it." 
 
 Harrower's jaw set unpleasantly. "In that case," he 
 said coldly, lighting another cigarette, and rising. "I 
 suppose they'll get it." 
 
 ' 'You object then?" I asked shortly, my own temper 
 beginning to get the better of me. 
 
 "I think it's damned sentimental nonsense," he snapped, 
 with ill-controlled heat. 
 
 255 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "I'm sorry — ^because it's going to go through." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 With Harrower's impleasant intonation still ringing in 
 my ears, I turned to the button that would summon 
 Traxler. 
 
 "Send Joe Lipsky to me," I said, when he entered. 
 
 Traxler looked at me for a moment without speaJdng. 
 "If I was you, Mr. Chandos," he said, "I think I'd keep 
 an eye peeled for that fellow. He's a bug — ^he's an 
 anarchist. I know — I've heard him spout. Watch out 
 for him." 
 
 "Thanks — I will. Now send him here." 
 
 "Lipsky," I said, when in obedience to my suggestion 
 he had seated himself opposite my desk. "Before I say 
 an3rthing at all about your demands themselves, I want 
 to tell you that I think in making them at this particular 
 time your're working a particularly nasty hold-up game. 
 You figured that what you couldn't put across with Mr. 
 Gresham, you could with me. But I want to tell you — 
 and I want you to tell your mates — that Mr. Gresham left 
 me to be boss . . . and I'm going to be boss. Under- 
 stand?" 
 
 It seemed to me that that was a fairly moderate speech, 
 and far from entirely expressing my emotions, but it really 
 appeared to impress Lipsky. The haJf-smile of quizzical 
 satisfaction on his face gave way to one of bewilderment, 
 and he fell to biting his lips nervously. 
 
 256 
 
THE DRAGON LIFTS HIS HEAD 
 
 "Now as to these demands you have made," I went on 
 evenly. "Number one — ^regarding a ten per cent increase 
 in pay — strikes me as reasonable. I've been over the 
 records, and I find, as you say, that prices have advanced 
 faster than wages. You ought to get it." 
 
 The amazement on Lipsky's face was almost comic. It 
 was obvious that he could not determine whether I was 
 joking or not. But I proceeded, as if imconscious of his 
 presence, 
 
 "Your second demand, regarding a decrease in the hours 
 of work, simply amounts to the same as your first. In 
 other words, you want more pay for less work. Does that 
 strike you as reasonable?" 
 
 "Well, sir— now . . . I . . ." 
 
 "Well!" I brought my fist down on the desk, belUger- 
 ently. "It doesn't strike me as reasonable. Not by a 
 long shot!" Then I added, quietly, without waiting for 
 his response — 
 
 "As for double pay for over-time work, I don't see why 
 you haven't had that before. That seems like a perfectly 
 fair demand." 
 
 Lipsky said nothing, but his jaw was pendulous, and his 
 breathing was a Httle hurried. 
 
 "Your fourth suggestion," I went on, "that the Com- 
 pany deduct and pay dues to the union, means simply 
 that you want us to do your book-keeping and collecting 
 for you. Well — we won't." 
 
 257 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "The last on the list amounts to nothing more or less 
 than that we declare for a closed shop . . ." 
 
 "Please sir, Mr. Chandos," protested Lipsky, "begging 
 your pardon, sir, it don't mean that. We aint askin' for 
 a closed shop. We ask only for you to recognize the 
 union." 
 
 "That's all you ask now. But it wouldn't be long be- 
 fore the other followed. It always does. Your idea does 
 credit to your subtlety, Lipsky . . . but you can't 
 get away with it. 
 
 "Oh — now, Mr. Chandos . . ." He lifted his hands 
 protestingly. 
 
 "Very well, then ..." I dropped my sarcastic 
 tone, and leaned forward. "I've thought this whole busi- 
 ness over pretty thoroughly, and here's what I've made up 
 my mind to do. Out of the five demands you've made, 
 there are only two that strike me as reasonable and fair. 
 I'll grant them. The rest — I won't. I may cable Mr. 
 Gresham for his O. K., but . . ." 
 
 A faint smile flickered over Lipsky's face. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you know what that would mean," I 
 said sharply. "You know how much you'd get from him 
 . . . He'd shut down the plant before he'd even listen 
 to you. Now you can go back and tell your pals what 
 I've told you. And I want you to make clear to them — 
 as I will if you don't — ^that I'm giving this increase because 
 
 258 
 
THE DRAGON LIFTS HIS HEAD 
 
 you ought to have it, and not because we're afraid of what 
 you might do." 
 
 He smiled openly. "It's too much of a coincidence, Mr. 
 Chandos; I don't think they'd believe me." 
 
 "To prove it's not a coincidence," I said, "I'm going to 
 make that increase general throughout the plant. Every- 
 body . . . girls included ... is going to profit. 
 Does that convince you?" 
 
 He did not leave at once, but stood there, twisting his 
 fingers. Once or twice he essayed to speak, but the words 
 seemed to die in his throat. Finally he managed to bltut 
 out — 
 
 "I'll teU the boys what you say. I don't know what 
 they'll do, but . . ." 
 
 "But you think they'll think twice before they quit 
 now, eh?" I finished for him. "Well, you're right, too, 
 Lipsky. They're fool enough to follow men like you a 
 certain distance, but . . ." 
 
 "It's men like me, Mr. Chandos," he said very seriously, 
 "who have gained them all they've got. . . and who 
 are going to help them gain the great deal more they're 
 going to get." 
 
 He looked at me steadily for a moment, as if striving 
 to make his strange speech penetrate to my inner con- 
 sciousness, and then, without another word, he went out, 
 closing the door very carefully behind him. 
 
 2S9 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 For a long time after he had gone I sat in thought. 
 Then I prepared to draft a cablegram — 
 
 Workers demand ten per cent wage increase. Given it to 
 everybody. Use your judgment about telling father. Remember 
 Kitty. 
 
 I took the message out to the telegraph office myself, 
 so that no one about the factory would know what I was 
 doing. I felt more than a little ashamed of myself. 
 
 The answer came late that afternoon: 
 
 Can't bother father. You're in command. Give all you can 
 to Kitty. 
 
 Without further delay I summoned Traxler, and pro- 
 ceeded to draw up a succinct announcement to the effect 
 that beginning the first of the month, there would be a 
 ten per cent increase in wages for everyone on the Gresham 
 Company payroll whose weekly stipend was less than 
 twenty-five dollars. 
 
 "Make some copies of that and have it posted up around 
 the plant," I said, when he had finished. 
 
 "Gee !" said Traxler, his pencil poised in the air. "That's 
 the first time I ever wished my salary was smaller." 
 
 That night, before I left for home, I took it into my 
 head to visit the label room. 
 
 I wandered through the long aisles, between the tables, 
 making a pretense of inspecting things, and endeavoring 
 to look very grim indeed. Finally I found what I sought. 
 
 260 
 
THE DRAGON LIFTS HIS HEAD 
 
 I stopped beside Kitty Doyle, as if to watch her work. 
 Presently I caught her eye. 
 
 "I wonder if you understand?" I said, more to myself 
 than to her. She stared at me, uncomprehending, for a 
 moment. Then something glistened under her lashes, and 
 I left her. 
 
 Of course she did not understand. But what matter. 
 There would be more Kitty Doyles to come, and per- 
 chance the straight and narrow might be a shade wider 
 for them than it had been for her. Sixty cents a week 
 was not a perfect guarantee of virtue, surely, but it was a 
 start. 
 
 I went to my humble abode that night with mixed 
 feelings. On the one hand was a delightful sense of 
 accompHshment, of having gotten to close quarters with 
 reality; on the other was an ominous foreboding that for 
 all the semblance of peace, my house was built upon a 
 volcano. 
 
 Of Gresham, so far away, I did not dare to think at all. 
 
 261 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 THERE'S no doubt about it," I said to Traxler one 
 morning, a few days after the augmented payroll 
 had gone into effect. "It pays to be fair. The work- 
 man's not an xmreasonable creature. Treat him fairly, 
 and he'll do the same by you. Bf doing the decent thing 
 we staved off a strike and a probable shut-down. Most 
 industrial difficulities could be settled by a httle get- 
 together spirit." 
 
 "Do you think it's settled . . . here?" he asked, 
 looking at me narrowly. "Hiere was something in his 
 tone that troubled me. 
 
 "Why, yes . . . don't you?" 
 
 "Not by a long shot," he said succinctly. 
 
 "Say . . . what do you mean? Have you nosed 
 into something new? 
 
 He shook his head. "No, I haven't foimd anything 
 new. But you're a devil of a long way off if you think 
 you've settled things. There's still an ugly feeling in the 
 air." 
 
 "You mean they're not satisfied with the raise — ^that 
 they insist we recognize the tmion." 
 
 "Honestly, Mr. Chandos, I can't tell you just what 
 
 262 
 
DON QUIXOTE 
 
 they do want. They don't know themselves. But I do 
 know that there's still a lot of talk going on, an' that little 
 rat — ^what's his name?" 
 
 "Lipsky?" 
 
 "Yes, that's the guy . . . Well, he's stiU denounc- 
 ing capitalism in the noon hour, and callin' on the world 
 at large to assert their rights . . ." 
 
 "Pooh!" I was irritated. My complacency sufiered a 
 severe set-back from his words, though I was loath to 
 admit it. "Don't mistake the nonsense of a few irre- 
 sponsible agitators, Traxler, for the opinion of the rank 
 and file. They're satisfied . . . and if they're not, 
 they jolly well ought to be," I added with some heat. 
 
 "All right, all right," said Traxler doggedly. "Maybe 
 I'm wrong, and maybe there won't be any trouble. I 
 hope so. But take my advice and keep a weather eye 
 peeled. You never can tell what's going to turn up." 
 
 I turned to my work, with a conscious effort to discount 
 the apprehension that Trajder's forebodings had awak- 
 ened. But instead of growing calm, I grew angry. I felt 
 as if the dog I fed had turned and bitten me. It was un- 
 fair. And it was so contrary to everything rational. 
 The problem of adjustment between the Company and 
 its men had seemed so ridiculously simple — and yet these 
 blundering idiots seemed intent on making it difficult if 
 not impossible of solution, following the dictates of im- 
 
 263 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 mature thinkers, to their own jeopardy and destruction. 
 I recalled an oft-repeated phrase of Gresham's: 
 
 "Take my word for it, Chandos — and I've had a good 
 deal of experience — give those fellows an inch and they'll 
 take a mile. They're an ungrateful lot. The only way 
 to keep them down is to keep a firm hand. Don't pam- 
 per them. It'll hurt them and it'll ruin you." 
 
 And then, as if to put an exclamation point to the rising 
 pitch of my emotions, McNamara came in. I could see 
 disaster writ large upon his face. 
 
 "Well," I said, resignedly, "out with it. What's the 
 matter?" 
 
 "I don't rightly know, sir," he said perplexedly. "I 
 wish I did. The fact is, sir, that the boilers gave us a 
 lot o' trouble this momin' and . . ." 
 
 "What kind of trouble?" 
 
 "They was all clogged up, sir, with some kind o' pasty 
 stuff." 
 
 "Pasty stuff?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "How about the water from the intake?" 
 
 "Perfectly clear, sir, as near as I could judge." 
 
 "Where did you find this stuff?" 
 
 "In the coils, sir. It prevented th' water from circu- 
 latin', an' . . ." 
 
 "Got any of it with you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." He spread a newspaper on my desk, and 
 264 
 
DON QUIXOTE 
 
 placed a small bucket, filled with a thick, whitish liquid, 
 upon it. I gave it one look, and pressed a button. 
 
 In a few moments Arendt, our chief chemist, appeared 
 in answer to the summons. 
 
 "Henry," I said, "what wovild you say oflEhand this 
 stuff was?" 
 
 He looked at the contents of the bucket, smelled of it, 
 and then, putting a little on his finger, tasted it. A grin 
 spread over his face." 
 
 "If anyone was to ask me, I should say it was soap," 
 he said. 
 
 "Soap?" we cried in unison. 
 
 "Yes — Gold Dust, or something like that. Of course, 
 I may be mistaken, and I'll analyze it for you, but there's 
 no doubt in my mind." 
 
 I bit my lip thoughtfully. Soap! Where had I read 
 of that trick? Was it on the Santa F^ in the big strike 
 of the year previous? The awfvd word sabotage rose in 
 my mind, only to be dismissed as preposterous. I turned 
 to Arendt. 
 
 "Yes, by all means analyze it — and give me your re- 
 port as soon as you can." When he had gone I looked 
 thoughtfully at McNamara. 
 
 "Mac — ^that soap — ^if it is soap — didn't get in there by 
 accident." 
 
 "No, sir," he said, scratching his head as if he was not 
 entirely convinced. 
 
 26s 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "Somebody put it there. Any ideas?" 
 
 "No, sir— that is— I—" 
 
 "Well, out with it. Who's the man?" 
 
 "Weel, now, Mr. Chandos, I don't like . . ." 
 
 "Come now, Mac, we're going to the bottom of this. 
 If you've got any suspicions, I want them." 
 
 "Weel, sir, this fellow Lipsky — ^mebbe y've seen him — 
 a little weasel faced . . ." 
 
 "Yes — I know him. Go on." My pulse was consid- 
 erably above normal. 
 
 "Weel, sir, he's been doin' a good bit of talkin' . . . 
 and what he says is in line with this piece of business. 
 I don't mean, y'understand, to say he done it, but it's 
 the sort of thing he — er — ^might favor, y'understand?" 
 
 "Yes — I understand," I said curtly — ^though I did 
 not. "You can fix this up all right, can't you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir — it'll take a leetle time, but . . ." 
 
 "Well, go and fix it — and keep a close mouth on this 
 business. Don't say ans^thing to anybody — ^understand?" 
 
 "Yes, sir — not a word." 
 
 When he had gone, his dour face expressing his inar- 
 ticulate wrath against the despoilerof his beloved boilers, 
 I summoned Traxler. 
 
 "Get Lipsky," I said sharply. 
 
 He came in smiling, and sat down, in response to my 
 invitation, in a chair I had placed carefully so that the 
 light fell strongly on his face, and left mine in shadow. 
 
 266 
 
DON QUIXOTE 
 
 For a full minute I sat silently studj^ng him. He 
 squirmed a little uncomfortably under my gaze, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 "What did you put soap in the boilers for, Joe?" I said 
 finally, keeping my voice as calm as if I was offering him 
 a cigar. 
 
 If the shot disturbed him, I could not be certain of it. 
 He was a good aptor. I fancied that the lines around his 
 lips tightened ever so slightly, but it may have been only 
 my imagination. As far as extorting a confession, my 
 coup failed utterly. He smiled again — enigmatically. 
 
 "Soap? Boilers? I don't understand, Mr. Chandos?" 
 
 I tried another tack. "All right then, let it drop. Now 
 here's another question. Are you men satisfied — yet?" 
 
 His smile faded, and his eyes were hostile. "You did 
 not recognize the Union, Mr. Chandos. This is an open 
 shop?" 
 
 "And if I did . . . you would be satisfied then?" 
 
 His reply was a puzzler. "No." His teeth clicked 
 together sharply. 
 
 I lost my temper completely. "Well, damn it all, man, 
 what do you want?" 
 
 His look went past me, and his whole face changed. It 
 was transformed, at the question, from the face of an ordi- 
 nary laborer to that of a seer of visions, of a dreamer of 
 dreams. The note of hostility faded from his voice, and 
 it became very soft and wistftd. He shook his head a 
 
 267 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 little sadly, it seemed, and though the words he spoke were 
 hackneyed by their use on the lips of every street-comer 
 radical, they seemed curiously to ennoble and be ennobled 
 as they came from him. 
 
 "We win not be satisfied, Mr. Chandos, until the wealth 
 we produce is ours — all ours." 
 
 "The overthrow of society — that's what you want?" 
 
 He nodded. I laughed — ^brutally, harshly. "You're 
 a hell of a practical man, Lipsky; do these cattle believe 
 all you tell them?" At my crude words the far-away look 
 changed to the one of grim hatred it had worn when he 
 came in. 
 
 ' 'Is that all, Mr. Chandos?" he asked servilely. But 
 the feelings underneath were all too plain. 
 
 "Yes — ^that's all. Just one more thing, though . . . 
 I'm no fool, Lipsky. And I'm wise to you." 
 
 For a long time after the little fanatic had left me I 
 sat in thought. I did not realize it at the moment, but the 
 fact was that I had been thrown, without the least warn- 
 ing, into a grapple with the greatest problem that modem 
 industry has to face. Labor had drawn the one weapon 
 that capital cannot fight. It was not strange that I felt 
 helpless. Indeed, with greater experience, it is likely 
 that I would have felt even more discouraged. 
 
 The obvious thing, the course of action that would sug- 
 gest itself most naturally — and the course that in all 
 probability Gresham himself would take — ^was to dis- 
 
 268 
 
DON QUIXOTE 
 
 charge Lipsky summarily. I must make my strength 
 felt at any cost. But checking this step, aside from the 
 fact that I was by no means sure of his guilt — ^was the cer- 
 tainty that in the present temper of the men his discharge 
 would mean a strike. And a strike would be a costly 
 thing. 
 
 On the other hand it was not to be thought of that there 
 be any more acts of secret aggression unpunished. And 
 that train of thought led to the natural conclusion — the 
 active aggressor must be caught. 
 
 That afternoon I arranged with a detective agency 
 down-town to keep a close watch on the movements of Joe 
 Lipsky. 
 
 II 
 
 Two mornings later I was a little delayed in getting to 
 the ofiSce, When I arrived, I found McNamara waiting 
 for me. His face was the picture of woe. I could not 
 refrain from smiling as I looked at him, but he checked me 
 with a moumfid gesture. 
 
 '"Tis no laughing matter, Mr. Chandos," he said grimly. 
 "If you don't mind — ^I've got somethin' I'd like ye t' see, 
 sir." 
 
 I asked no questions, but followed him wonderingly to 
 the engine-room. 
 
 "Good Lord," I cried, "you don't mean . . . it's 
 not . , . more soap?" 
 
 269 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 '"Tis not," he said shortly. "'Tis worse. Look." 
 
 I followed his bony forefinger to the dissected bearing 
 of one of the dynamos. 
 
 "Well — ^what is it, man? Out with it." 
 
 He ran his thumb along the exposed shaft, and then held 
 it under my eyes. A dirty gra3rish deposit was left on it. 
 
 "What is it?" I cried. 
 
 His voice was solemn. "It's emery, sir." 
 
 "Yes — go on, for heaven's sake. Tell me what has hap- 
 pened, can't you?" 
 
 "Weel, sir," he replied heavily, "when I started 'er up 
 this morning everything seemed all right, until fust thing 
 I knows, she begins to holler. . . ." 
 
 "HoUer?" 
 
 "Yes — squeak, ye know." 
 
 "I see — go on." 
 
 "Weel, for a minute I couldn't think what was the 
 matter, and then, acddentily, I put my hand on this here 
 bearin' . . . See the blister it raised. Weel, I opened 
 'er up . . . This is what I found . . . It'll need 
 new beaxins, sir, 'fore we can run 'er again." 
 
 "I see — ^well, do what is necessary," I said shortly. I 
 was too disheartened to discuss the situation f vuther. It 
 is hard to keep up your courage against an enemy that 
 strikes in the dark. But as I was leaving him, a thought 
 struck me. 
 
 270 
 
DON QUIXOTE 
 
 "Mac — ^what do you suppose makes them go for you 
 every time? Haven't got any enemies, have you?" 
 
 He shook his head silently. 
 
 "Well, then — ^why have both blows been struck at 
 you?" 
 
 He looked at me squarely. "They ain't, sir. They've 
 been struck at th' Comp'ny. An' they've struck here 
 because the enjine room is th' guts of th' hull plant. If 
 they can tie up the dynamos or the b'ilers they tie up 
 everything else, don't they?" 
 
 "I see. Do you think they'll try it again?" 
 
 He lit his pipe before replying. I don't see why they 
 shouldn't," he said calnily. "Th' fust time wasn't an 
 accident, and the second wasn't a success, because I hap- 
 pened t' be aroun' before the whole thing was burnt out. 
 Why shouldn't they try it again?" 
 
 "And if they do — ^you think they'll try the engine room 
 again?" 
 
 "I would if I was them." 
 
 "Then we'll be ready for them," I said grimly. When I 
 left the old engineer, it was to make further arrangements 
 with my detective friends for a close night watch — on the 
 inside of the plant, with particular attention to the 
 engine room. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "What's the end of it all?" I cried wearily. I was in 
 271 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 Traxler's room after dining with ^im one nigjit, and he was 
 recounting stories to prove his contention that disaffec- 
 tion was still rife in the factory. "I do everything I can 
 think of for them — ^but they aren't satisfied. I don't 
 think they want to be. What's the answer?" 
 
 Trader flicked a match into the cavity that had once 
 housed a wood-burning stove in the days of the building's 
 gentihty. 
 
 "I don't rightly know," he said slowly. "But sometimes 
 I think the trouble is that you're workin' to improve 
 individual cases, and they want to change the whole 
 darned system of things." 
 
 "But don't I give them even more than they ask?" 
 
 "Sure you do. But don't you see that they don't 
 think you've got any right to be able to give it to them. 
 In a way you're charitable, and they hate charity like 
 the devil." 
 
 "But thejr'd change the whole constitution of society." 
 
 "And what's society to them?" he cried, wrinkling his 
 eyebrows. "They don't know nothia' about it. AH they 
 know is that they ain't gettin' what's comin' to them." 
 
 I recalled Lipsky's remark — "We will not be satisfied 
 till the wealth we produce is om^ — all ours." 
 
 "But, my dear boy, progress isn't going to be attained 
 by the destruction of property. I'm in favor of collective 
 bargaining. I believe that unions, like the Locomotive 
 Engineers, are a great force for good. They act Uke 
 
 272 
 
DON QUIXOTE 
 
 rational htunans. You can talk sense to them, but these 
 chaps who . . ." 
 
 "Who belong to the I. W. W., and stick monkey- 
 wrenphes in the wheels, and ain't never satisfied, you can't 
 understand them, eh?" 
 
 "I certainly cannot," I said with conviction. 
 
 "Well, I can. In the first place, they're stupid." 
 
 "Rather." 
 
 "Well, that's the reason for the whole business. These 
 fine unions you talk about won't let the poor muttonheads 
 in. Nobody pipes their horn for 'em, until along comes a 
 loud-mouthed I. W. W. and says 'Here, boys, I'm the guy 
 to foUow. You won't get anythin' out of socialism, 
 because that's political and it's too slow for starvin'men 
 like you. And you won't get anything out of unionism, 
 because it's too high-toned. You can't bargain and you 
 can't vote, so the only way to get the great big round 
 world for the workin' man, the honest workin' man who 
 oi^ht by rights to own it, is to make such a nuisance of 
 yourself that the capitalists 11 have to go out of business 
 — and then the whole blamed thing's yours." 
 
 "But that's so silly," I objected. "What could they do 
 with it if they had it?" 
 
 "When you was a baby an' you cried for the moon, it 
 didn't do any good for your mama to tell you that it 
 wouldn't never be any use to you, even if she got the step- 
 ladder and brought it down to you. You went on holler- 
 
 273 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 ing just the same, didn't you? Well, that's the way it is 
 with these fellows." 
 
 "But that's no answer. You don't tell me what I 
 ought to do." 
 
 "Of cotirse it's no answer. Did you think I was going 
 to give you an asnwer? Why, gee whiz! — ^anyguy that 
 can answer just a little of that question is some guy, 
 believe me. Nobody knows the whole answer. A lot o' 
 people think they do, but they don't — socialists, single- 
 taxers, holy rollers, Progressives, an* God knows what 
 all . . . but the whole shootin' match rolled together 
 don't know enough t' wad a gun with. It's a case of 
 doin' the best you can, and hopin' you won't get theworst 
 of it." 
 
 "That's what I'm doing." 
 
 "Well — go on doing it." 
 
 There may not seem to be anything particularly novel 
 in that advice, but it comforted me strangely. Traxler 
 was not exactly an intellectual, but his very humanity 
 made his opinions more valuable in some respects than 
 those of anyone with whom I came in contact. I left 
 him that night feeling more encouraged than I had felt 
 in a long time, and realizing, with much greater clarity, 
 how very, very little an individual can accomplish against 
 the tremendous problems that beset us all. Traxler 
 taught me what I needed most — patience. 
 
 274 
 
DON QUIXOTE 
 
 IV 
 One evening, about two weeks after my chat with 
 Traxler, I found it necessary to go to the office after the 
 theatre for some papers that I wished to take to my 
 lawyers in the morning. I found a good deal to do, how- 
 ever, and it was well after one o'clodc when I began to 
 wrap up my bundle. I lit a cigarette as I finished, and 
 raised my hand to extinguish the light, and then . . . 
 I froze in a cataleptic trance. I thought I was alone in 
 the building. I stood tense, straining my ears for the 
 sound I thought I had heard. For what seemed like ten 
 nainutes there was perfect silence, except for the ticking 
 of my desk clock. Then over its monotonous sound 
 there came to me a slow, dull scratching, as if a heavy 
 body were being dragged over rough boards. And then, 
 like a cannon's roar, for the contrast it made with the 
 previous quiet, there came the sharp call of a man's voice, 
 followed by a crash of glass, and a rush of many feet on 
 the floor beneath me. My heart potmding like a hammer, 
 I ran to the fire-escape that opened off from my window. 
 There was an arc light on the street that threw the alley 
 for a number of yards into an iUumioation equal to day- 
 light. Suddenly, silhouetted against the light, I saw a 
 slight figure running at full speed. And then, just as it 
 reached the sidewalk, I heard the sharply repeated bark 
 of a revolver. The runner seemed to jiunp in the air, 
 
 275 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 then fall prone, stagger to his feet, and then coUapse, 
 like a pricked balloon. He did not rise again. I waited 
 for no more, but made for the stairway as fast I as could. 
 
 There was a group of perhaps half a dozen around the 
 fallen figure when I reached it. One was kneeling. To 
 my hoarse query no one paid any attention. I pulled 
 one of the men by the sleeve. 
 
 "What's happened?" I cried. 
 
 "Nothin'," he said shortly, jerking his arm away. 
 
 "Hold on. I'm Mr. Chandos — are you one at Larkin's 
 men?" 
 
 He looked at me suspiciously for a moment, and then 
 called to one of the others. A tall man detached himself 
 from the group and came toward me. 
 
 "This guy sajrs he's Mr. Chandos," the first one said. 
 "Know him?" 
 
 "Oh." The taller of the two stepped into the light, 
 and I recognized one of the detectives that had been 
 assigned to guard over the factory. We shook hands. 
 
 "What's up?" I asked again. 
 
 "Oh, nothin'," he said calmly. "They found a guy 
 hiding in the coal bunkers, and when they ordered him 
 to halt he up and jumped through a window. Then one 
 of the boys winged him in the alley . . ." 
 
 "Shot him?" 
 
 "Sure—" 
 
 "Is he . . . dead?" 
 
 276 
 
DON QUIXOTE 
 
 The detective laughed shortly. "Dead as a rabbit. 
 Got him in the heart, I guess." 
 
 1 More from a sense of duty than from curiosity, I joined 
 the group around the dead man. One of them stood up 
 as I approached. "No use," he laughed. "He don't need 
 no ambulance — ^he needs a hearse." 
 
 As he moved away the glare from the arc light fell full 
 on the dead man's face. I sickened suddenly and all but 
 fainted. It was Joe Lipsky. . . . 
 
 He had climbed the ladder of his logic to reach the 
 moon of his Utopia, and the ladder being badly made, it 
 collapsed beneath him. I had to lean against the wall a 
 moment before I recovered from the shock. Poor Lipsky 
 — ^poor Don Quixote — ^poor, illogical, misguided idealist, 
 all his work gone for naught . . . and yet . . . 
 
 We had no more "sabotage" in the factory after that 
 night. 
 
 277 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 THE months rolled rapidly away. News from abroad 
 gave no hint of Gresham's return, and I grew daily 
 more fixed in my position. The reports of my 
 stewardship grew steadily more evasive, and more con- 
 fined to generalities, as I grew to consider myself less of a 
 steward. 
 
 As to my other correspondence with foreign climes, it 
 waxed increasingly profound and prolix. All the things 
 I dared not tell the father were chronicled in detail to the 
 daughter — but always with the understanding that she 
 was to transmit to him whatever she thought advisable. 
 Thus, in a way, did I absolve myself from responsibility 
 for my acts, and rather cowardly perhaps, acquire a part- 
 ner in my treachery. 
 
 The colvmm of jottings, of which I have spoken before, 
 containing a record of all the things I would like to do at 
 the factory, was brought out and increased. I went on 
 dihgently fighting for business, increasing sales, making 
 the profits mount . . . but I did all that with one 
 hand. With the other I struggled — no less diligently — 
 to bring beauty into the ugliness of my surrotmdings, and 
 into the lives of the unhappy creatures who toiled about me. 
 
 278 
 
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 In all this I do not think there was much of conscious 
 altruism, I felt no particular love for my fellow man 
 . . .. and the sallow-faced, fiat-breasted, dull-eyed 
 women; nor did I expend a large part of my energies in 
 efforts to make things better for them because of any 
 emotional sympathy with them. The inspiration that 
 made me work altruistically was a mere amplification of 
 the spirit that makes a man like a clean room to live in, 
 and a clean desk to work at. I wanted clean people, and 
 happy people arotmd me . . . because I was made 
 happier myself as a result. It was exquisitely selfish, all 
 through. 
 
 My evenings were spent in study; for I soon discovered 
 that all my desires for social betterment were mere vague 
 leanings, and that I lacked the specific knowledge neces- 
 sary to put a cutting edge on my tendencies. So I applied 
 myself industriously to economics and sociology. I sub- 
 scribed to the Survey, and other publications of a similar 
 nature. I also went into "socialism" as thoroughly as I 
 could, and spent a great many hours listening to unwashed, 
 tmgroomed, obviously unintelligent but indisputably sin- 
 cere people — ^both men and women — expounding the prin- 
 ciples of a mysterious Something about which no two of 
 them seemed to have the same idea, but which they 
 treated as the panacea for all earthly ills. I even made 
 occasional journeys out to Milwaukee Avenue to listen 
 to expositions of anarchy — or anarchism . . . accord- 
 
 279 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 ing as one is an opponent or an exponent. On my first 
 visit the press had spoken of the presence of police; and 
 I was therefore surprised — ^perhaps a little disappointed — 
 to find a rather dirty but very quiet company, listening 
 attentively to a painfully mild discussion of things in 
 which everyone, no matter how respectable, beHeves. 
 At the most, some speaker would observe, without partic- 
 ular conviction, that the principle of govenunent was 
 wrong . . . whereat everyone would cheer apa- 
 thetically. It was very dull. The most daring thing I 
 ever heard at one of these "red" meetings was a denun- 
 ciation of marriage, offered very ungrammatically by an 
 angular female of advanced age, who appeared to have a 
 personal animosity for an institution that obviously was 
 not for her. Her views, though imdeniably shocking, 
 and highly subversive of law and order, only served to 
 make the single brass-buttoned representative thereof 
 smile broadly . . . and yawn. 
 
 But out of all the chaotic mass of inconsistency and 
 stupidity, a more or less definite attitude was slowly 
 formulated in my mind. I picked what I could from each 
 doctrine, each sect, each writer, each speaker, and out of 
 all the jumble of thought and argtmient, I gradually built 
 up something that I could use. And with this tool, forged- 
 from little grains of metal picked up everywhere, and 
 sharpened on my own experience, I proceeded to recon- 
 struct the Gresham Food Products Company. 
 
 280 
 
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 My consistent radicalism could not, of course, pass un- 
 noticed for long. It found bitter opponents. And of 
 these the bitterest was Harrower. He made no secret 
 of his increasing antagonism for me, and when I sum- 
 moned him one morning to acquaint him with the details 
 of a long-contemplated scheme, I was prepared for open 
 war. 
 
 "Harrower," I said candidly, when he had seated him- 
 self. "You and I aren't in sympathy." 
 
 He grunted something, but made no intelligible reply. 
 
 My intention had been to argue with him, to attempt 
 to persuade him to my way of thinking, but his churlish 
 reception of my overtures made me change my plans. 
 Instead of being conciliatory I became aggressive. 
 
 "I have for a long time been working out in my mind the 
 details of a plan ... I should like to have your 
 approval." 
 
 He made no reply, so I went on. 
 
 "It seems to me that the only way for us to eliminate 
 strikes and the fear of strikes is to give the workers a 
 direct personal interest in the business. In a sense, we've 
 got to take them into partnership." 
 
 "How?" There was a sneer on Harrower 's lips. 
 
 I tried to make my voice patient. "By enabling them 
 to share in the profits." 
 
 He lit a cigarette with an elaborate pretense of non- 
 chalance. "First you raise their wages and then you let 
 
 281 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 'em share in the profits. What's going to be left for the 
 stockholders?" 
 
 "By increasing the workers' interest in the business, by 
 developing a greater esprit de corps, by eliminatii^ all 
 labor troubles, I feel that our productiveness wiU be so 
 greatly increased that the stockholders, so far from suffer- 
 ing, will actually benefit." 
 
 "Piffle!" said Harrower succinctly. "Still," he added 
 cynically, "if we make the wops partners we can cut down 
 our liability insurance. That's a good point." 
 
 "It's not only good ethics, it's good busings. We — " 
 
 "Oh, hell, Chandos." He threw away his cigarette 
 with a sav^e gesture. "What's the use of talking poppy- 
 cock like that. You get one sentimental scheme into your 
 head after another. You're not running a Sunday school. 
 Great Scot, man, what makes you think you're put 
 on the earth to reform everything? It seems to me you've 
 got enough on your hands without trying to turn the place 
 into a camp-meeting." 
 
 "Don't you think it's fair to give what you so elegantly 
 term the 'wops' a little better share in the profit from 
 what they produce?" 
 
 "I'm not a Saturday night socialist, Chandos. I'm a 
 business man. And I'm not going to stand for any more 
 of this damned nonsense," he declared tructilently. 
 
 "Don't you think it would work?" 
 
 "Work — ^hell! If you're running a home for old ladies, 
 282 
 
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 that's one thing. If you're numing a business with a 
 profit to make, it's another. Why . . ." 
 
 "Well, industrial cooperation has worked elsewhere. 
 It's worked everywhere it's been given a fair trial. But 
 hang it all, man," I cried, losing my calm, "can't you look 
 on this in anything but the light of dollars? Isn't there 
 a htmian side to it? Isn't there anything in life for you 
 but making money? Can't you see that . . ?" 
 
 narrower threw back his head and laughed — ^harshly. 
 "God! Chandos, you make me laugh. To think of the 
 son of John Chandos getting off a line of stuff like that. 
 Shucks! What are you trying to put over, anyway? Do 
 you think I haven't got any sense at all?" 
 
 I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Just what do you 
 mean by that?" I said shortly. 
 
 "Oh, come now," he said. "Don't try that injured 
 dodge. Your precious family's better known than you 
 think it is. Lord! Your dad must laugh to hear you getting 
 ofiE this stuff — he wasn't so damned superior to money. He 
 took mine quick enough," he added savagely, imder his 
 breath. 
 
 "Will you be good enough to explain that remark?" 
 
 "Explain? What?" 
 
 "What you said about my father." 
 
 "Do you honestly mean to say that you don't know 
 what I mean?" Harrower's brow was wrinkled in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 283 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "I honestly do not," I said sincerely. 
 
 He looked at me narrowly for a moment without speak- 
 ing. "Then you're a bigger fool than I took you for," 
 he snapped brutally. "You're quite sure you want to 
 know?" 
 
 "Please, I . . ." 
 
 "Well, if you must have it, he died just in time to keep 
 out of jail. His finances were slicker than his morals. 
 That's why it makes me so sick to hear you drool about 
 ethics." 
 
 I was stunned. And yet, curiously, I was grateful to 
 narrower; for the first time, too, grateful to circumstance. 
 I was able to rejoice honestly that I had made my way in 
 the world from a penniless start. What I had was my 
 own — made honestly. It was a shock, of course, to Icam 
 the truth about my father, but it was not wholly a pain- 
 ful one. 
 
 "He's been dead a long time," I said quietly. "Let's 
 forget what he was and what he did. We . . ." 
 
 "You didn't lose anything," said Harrower shortly. 
 
 "On the contrary — I lost everything," I replied. 
 
 He had no response to that, and for a little while we sat 
 in silence. Finally I rose. 
 
 "I am sorry, Harrower," I said as calmly as I cotild, 
 "that you and I don't seem to hit it ofiE better on these 
 questions. I guess it's because we have different concep- 
 tions of loyalty. 
 
 284 
 
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 He looked up sharply. "What do you mean by that? 
 If you . . ." 
 
 "Simply that you think your duty ends with your duty 
 to your emplo3rer, and I think I have a duty to the em- 
 ployed as well. 
 
 "You're a wizard at slinging the bimk, Chandos," nar- 
 rower laughed unpleasantly, "but you don't put anything 
 over. You talk about loyalty — ^rats! You know mighty 
 well what Gresham would do if he knew what you were 
 up to. It seems to me that it would be in better taste 
 on your part to say nothing about 'loyaltj?*." 
 
 "Very well, then," I said coldly. "We'll each do as we 
 think best. I'm sorry I can't have your cooperation: I 
 shall go ahead without it." 
 
 "Thank your lucky stars I'm not a squealer . . . 
 You'd be out of a job damned quick if I was." 
 
 And with that parting shot Harrower flung himself 
 out of the office. 
 
 He left me to unpleasant introspection. He had spoken 
 all too truly. I was indeed fortunate not to be out of a 
 job. And I wondered how long I could go on in the same 
 course. Many of my subordinates, men who hated me 
 for the mere fact of my having superseded them, would 
 not hesitate to knife me if they could. Dorothy Gresham 
 was my greatest protection. Knowing the exact state of 
 affairs, she played censor over her father's mail, and in 
 this way she caught and sidetracked several letters, which, 
 
 285 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 under the guise of respectful inquiry after his health, gave 
 very detailed accounts of my outrageous stewazdship. 
 
 However, it was foolish to worry about my tenure of 
 office. So in putting tiuough my sdieme of cooperation, 
 I managed to forget all presentiments ot discovoy. 
 
 II 
 
 And then, one beautiful day in early Spring, when 
 
 placidity was complete, came the sudden warning of the 
 
 cataclysm. I found a cablegram waiting for me at the 
 
 office, ominous in its brevity. 
 
 Father got a magaziiie. Prepare for worst. H<xne irrme- 
 £ately. 
 
 I knew that some of the numerous radical changes I had 
 made in the management of the Company had gotten 
 into the newspaper iMess, and had even been writtoi up 
 to some extent in the magazines. But somehow it had 
 ne\'er entered my head to suppose that any erf this matter 
 could find its way to Gresham, peacefully stagnating in one 
 health resort after another. However, there was nothing 
 for it now but to draw myself up and die like a man. For 
 die I most certainly must! 
 
 I was not obliged to suffer in suspense very long. The 
 Gresbams arrived in Chicago just ten days after the cable. 
 I was seated at my desk, hard at work, wbea the office boy, 
 looking very scared, came in with the stunning intdligence 
 tiiat Mr. Gresham was in his (^5ce and dedrous of seeing 
 
 286 
 
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 me at once. I followed the boy, feelii^ very tnuch as I 
 had on that day long ago when I had been ushered into 
 the terrible presence of Mr. Keppy. I had the same queer 
 sensation in my stomach — ^Uke the pangs of hunger. 
 
 Gresham stared at me, unsmiling, as I entered. I 
 realized, suddenly, that I was not supposed to know any- 
 thing of his arrival, and I managed to convey a pretty 
 good imitation of surprise. But his reception of my per- 
 fervid welcome was frigid, to say the least. He merely 
 shook hands with me quickly, and then motioned me to a 
 chair. 
 
 "I suppose you're wondering what brought me back so 
 suddenly," he said at length in a curiously emotionless 
 tone. 
 
 "Naturally," said I, "particularly as you didn't give me 
 any warning of your coming," I added in as aggrieved a 
 tone as I could muster. 
 
 "Well, my young friend, I had to come back to save my 
 business." 
 
 "Save your business? . . . why . . . what do 
 you mean?" I managed to murmur with an aspect of 
 perfect stupefaction. 
 
 "It'll save a lot of time and useless language if we just 
 assume that I know everything that's been going on in the 
 plant since I left." Gresham's voice was hard, and his 
 jaw set. "When I left you in charge here, Chandos, it 
 was with all sorts of misgivings. I hoped against hope 
 
 287 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 that they would prove false. Well . , . they didn't. 
 I just made a bad guess, that's about the size of it. 
 
 "You mean you're not satisfied with what I've done in 
 your absence?" I asked coldly. I realized clearly that it 
 was to be a finish fight between us now, and that all 
 subterfuge must be dropped. 
 
 "That is exactly what I do mean!" he snapped grimly. 
 
 "Wehave done seventeen per cent more business than we 
 ever did before in the same period, Mr. Gresham . . ." 
 
 "Yes . . . and our expenses have been consid- 
 erably more than that!" Gresham smiled sardonically. 
 "Chandos, you're a puzzle to me. I beUeve you to be 
 absolutely honest. But you're a sort of Jesuit . . . 
 anything seems to justify your ends . . ." 
 
 "Business has been handled more cheaply," I inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 "What if it has? Suppose you have gotten more busi- 
 ness, and gotten it cheaper — ^that isn't the point. Hang 
 it all, man! . . . can't you see that the profit to the 
 Company . . . the profit, you imderstand, the net 
 profit ... is way under normal?" 
 
 "The net profit in cash may be lower . . . but 
 look at the factory itself — doesn't it look better to you? 
 Don't you suppose the work people are happier . . . 
 don't they seem happier?" 
 
 "What in . . . what do I care how the factory 
 tboks?" cried Gresham in exasperation. 
 
 288 
 
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 "But the human element . . . Don't you care 
 about that either?" 
 
 "Not in the least. Darwin knocked your soft ideas 
 out of commission. It's a case of the survival of the 
 fittest. You're going counter to Nature when you insist 
 on pampering these people. Nobody ever pampered me. 
 I got what I got by my own efEorts. That's the way the 
 world is run. You pamper these folk, give them things 
 they never had and never expected to have, and aU you 
 succeed in doing is to make them want more, make them 
 dissatisfied with their lot. You're a disturber. You're 
 a wrecker of society. You're a creator of unsatisfiable 
 demands — unnecessary demands. And you . . . cut 
 dividends. That's what I can't forgive nor overlook." 
 
 "Well, and who gets the dividends — big or little? You 
 make the money — ^almost all of it — ^yourself, don't you? 
 This business could go to smash tomorrow, and you'd 
 still have enough tucked away to be pretty comfortable, 
 wouldn't you?" 
 
 "Oh, Chandos — ^my dear boy — it's not the money 
 itself . . . it's the principle of the thing. I've been 
 hoping all along that you'd get a business outlook, but 
 you haven't. You've run farther and faster away from 
 it than I ever thought you could — and I'm sorry. 
 
 "Well, but you have got plenty of money, haven't 
 you?" I persisted, "Your dividends could fall off a lot 
 more than they havie without affecting your present mode 
 
 289 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 of living in the least, couldn't they? You spend thousands 
 of dollars every year on charities of a dozen different 
 sorts . . . churches, hospitals, summer camps for 
 boys, homes for fallen women , . . weU, why not cut 
 out these charities and put the money into the business 
 the way I've been putting it? You gave $s,ooo last year 
 to the Home for Delinquent Girls, And yet you object to 
 my spending less than half of that on a wage increase that 
 helps to make homes for delinquent girls unneccesary." 
 
 "Come, come, Chandos . . . you mustn't senti- 
 mentalize." 
 
 "I'm not sentimentalizing. I'm more practical than 
 you are. You talk of principles: I deal with facts. Can't 
 you see that your attitude is absurd from the bottom up?" 
 I had cast deference to the winds. I knew that the war- 
 rant for my commercial execution had been signed, and 
 my only anxiety now was to justify myself from the 
 gallows. I pressed on, enthusiastically. "You spend a 
 forttme every year in uprooting weeds from the community 
 . . . and yet you won't see the reason in spending 
 much less to stop the sowing of weeds. You work freely 
 enough at effects . . . but you're blind to causes." 
 
 Gresham shook his head, and drew a long breath. 
 "Chandos," he said quietly, "you gave promise of un- 
 usual brilliance, when you and I first came together. But 
 there was a germ in you, that instead of dying, has grown 
 day by day. You have the prime requisite of a big busi- 
 
 290 
 
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 ness man — ^bnagination; but instead of hamessii^ it, and 
 usii^ it for the purposes that would get you somewhere, 
 and get the man who employs you somewhere, you've let 
 it run away with you. Instead of mastering it, you've 
 let it master you. You've dallied with theory — Socialism 
 . . . what not . . . and now we've c»me to the 
 partii^ of the ways . . ." 
 
 There was a long pause between us. There seemed to 
 be nothing for me to say, and Gresham fell at his old 
 trick of tearing strips of paper into minute bits. Pres- 
 ently he loolffid at me thoughtfully — 
 
 "The trouble simply is that you're an altruist, and I'm 
 an individualist, Chandos. You reason things out . , . 
 and I prefer to follow Nature. Nature is never altruistic. 
 She attends to the race and lets the individual attend to 
 himself. She lays out the board, and the animal that 
 plays the game the best — ^wins . . . whether he be a 
 tiger in a jungle . . . or a food manufacturer like me." 
 
 "I guess our opposition comes from different concep- 
 tions of the game of life, Mr. Gresham," I said rather 
 bitterly; for I felt the utter hopelessness of argument. 
 "You want to play it rough-and-tumble, and I'd rather 
 play — and win or lose — ^in a game that has rules." 
 
 Gresham smiled. "That's hardly a fair comparison," 
 he said. ' 'But no matter. We've passed the stage where 
 argument is of any advantage. I've hoped aU along that 
 I could make you see things as I saw them. Now I know 
 
 291 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 that that hope was vain. We can't pull together. You've 
 got to run the length of your rope. And I'm too old to 
 change. One or the other of us will have to give in. One 
 of us has got to go, Mr. Chandos . . ." 
 
 I stood up and shrugged my shoulders with as elaborate 
 a semblance of nonchalance as I could muster. Gresham 
 was watching me narrowly, striving, I suppose, to pierce 
 the reserve with which I had learned to conceal my emo- 
 tions. 
 
 "There is no need for you to say anymore, Mr. Gresh- 
 am," I said, as dispassionately as I could. "The road 
 forks for us here." 
 
 He rose and came over to me. "I'm sorry, my boy," he 
 cried impulsively, seizing my hand, "sorrier than I can 
 possibly make you understand. Personally, there isn't 
 anybody in the world for whom I have a higher regard. 
 You believe me when I tell you that?" he added, almost 
 anxiously. 
 
 "It's not a case of personality, Mr. Gresham," I said. 
 "This isn't a^ conflict between individuals . . . it's a 
 conflict between generations. We're just tmits in the 
 fight. You win in this particular comer of the battle- 
 field . . . but my, lines are advancing everywhere. 
 You can check us, occasionally, but you can't win . . . 
 you can't . . . and if you live long enough, you'll 
 learn that what I say is so." 
 
 I do not think he entirely understood what I meant by 
 292 
 
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 that somewhat cryptic speech, but I was in no mood for 
 further conversation, and I did not attempt to elucidate. 
 I merely bowed, and turned to leave. 
 
 "Of course you understand that things remain in statu 
 quo until you — er — ^find another berth?" asked Gresham 
 with a trace of embarrassment. 
 
 I nodded. "Thank you, sir." 
 
 "And you have no hard feelings . . . toward me 
 . . . personally?" 
 
 "My dear sir!" I was even able to smile. "I look upon 
 you as a principle, not a person, and aU the sting of your 
 present victory is more than compensated for by my cer- 
 tainty as to your ultimate defeat!" 
 
 And with that final bit of bombast, before he had time 
 to retaliate, I left him. 
 
 Looking on that momentous interview in retrospect, I 
 am amazed to find how "tmbusiaessKke" it was. I sup- 
 pose the average reader, whose ideas of business spring 
 from literature rather than from experience, will charge 
 me with tmverisimihtude. He — or rather, she — wUl say 
 that such a curiously sentimental interview could never 
 in the world have taken place between two such men as 
 we were: while others, who, through experience, do know 
 how much pure romance there is in commonplace every- 
 day business life, will perhaps accept my record of the affair 
 as authentic, but will explain its apparent abnormality 
 by my "artistic temperament." Any man who dallies 
 
 293 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 with the arts is certain to be burdened with that inexpli- 
 cable explanation, that catch-all for everything that is 
 conceded to be abnormal, because it does not seem to be 
 normal. 
 
 I will not contradict that explanation of my behavior, 
 for the very excellent reason that it is essentially correct. 
 It was my artistic temperament that made me run foul 
 of my employer, with the resulting severance, tmder 
 compulsion, of my connection with his Company. But I 
 do not consider "artistic temperament" as a term of re- 
 proach. Indeed, I am firmly convinced that the artistic 
 temperament, in some form, is responsible for ever3rthing 
 good that happens in life — as well as a good deal that is 
 nobly bad — and that every good and sincere man, whether 
 he lays bricks, or runs a loom, or writes music, or shoes 
 horses, or paints pictures, shares in some measure that 
 supernal moving Force, "the artistic temperament," 
 which some philosophers designate "the creative con- 
 sciousness," or as every child expresses it — "havin' fun." 
 From time's beginning men have invented and built and 
 schemed and sought political glory and led amaies and 
 painted pictures and written poetry — ^because they wanted 
 to . . . because, indeed, they could not help them- 
 selves. The great things of the world have not been accom- 
 plished for money or for fame, or for any extraneous reason 
 whatsoever, but for the sheer sake of the accomplishment 
 
 294 ' 
 
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT 
 
 itself. Great men have not mastered ideas; but great 
 ideas have mastered men. 
 
 That, to me, is the meaning of the "artistic tempera- 
 ment." And insofar as one bums with that divine Par- 
 nassian fire, he is great. 
 
 The man who paints a true picture and the man who 
 builds an honest business have no quarrel ; each, at bottom, 
 is kin to the other. 
 
 29S 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 TWO CORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 IT seemed the most natural thing in the world, that 
 night, for me to see Dorothy. And each step that 
 brought me nearer to her made me realize more 
 clearly how much I had missed her — how much I depended 
 upon her. 
 
 The butler told me that Miss Gresham was waiting for 
 me in the little room with the low chairs and the dim, 
 shaded Hghts. Of course he did not use words at all like 
 these, but that was the impression he managed to convey 
 to me. 
 
 Dorothy greeted me with a warmth that was tinged 
 with embarrassment. So I spared her the pain of broach- 
 ing the topic that was uppermost in both our minds, by 
 being the first to speak of it. 
 
 "Well . . . it's all over. The bomb has btu-st. 
 Here before you stands all that's left of the quondam 
 General Manager of the Gresham Food Products Company. 
 Fired again!" I spoke in declamatory fashion, striving 
 to appear flippant. But she was serious. 
 
 "You mean . . ." 
 
 "Exactly what I said. Your father and I have parted 
 commercial company." 
 
 296 
 
JWO CORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 "I am so sorry," she said, very simply. But those 
 three words from her conveyed more solace to my woimded 
 spirit than all the protestations in the language from other 
 people. 
 
 For a long time we sat silently together, each thought- 
 ful, each wondering what to say. Finally she looked up 
 at me, and smiled. 
 
 "I wonder if you know what a rift you are in the family 
 lute?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that I side with you — ^that I think you're 
 right and father is wrong . . . which I haven't 
 entirely concealed from him, as a really dutiful daughter 
 should." 
 
 "But why should you conceal what you think fromhim? 
 He worships you." 
 
 She laughed, with just a trace of bitterness. "He wor- 
 ships me — ^not my judgment. He doesn't think women 
 — even his daughter — have much intelligence. But that 
 wasn't my only reason. You see, I didn't want to prej- 
 udice him against you. I wanted you to meet him 
 squarely and fairly. Now there's no longer any need for 
 silence . . . and I'm afraid his dutiful daughter is 
 going to give him the shock of his life." 
 
 There was another pause, and I wondered if she could 
 hear my heart beating. 
 
 297 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "But why . . . sjiould you be so interested in 
 protecting me?" I asked hesitantly. 
 
 "Because — ^well, in the first place, I aided and abetted 
 you in everything you did, I concealed what you were 
 doing from him, and encouraged you to go on to even worse 
 things. Why — ^that cable — I'm actually a party to 
 your — er — disgrace. Why shouldn't I want to defend 
 you? . . . I'dbe theworstkind of traitor if I didn't." 
 
 "That's the first place," I persisted softly. "How 
 about the second?" 
 
 "The second . . . Why — ^what do you mean by 
 that?" 
 
 "You've given me one reason: aren't there . . . 
 any others?" 
 
 Ovu- eyes met for the veriest fraction of an instant. 
 Then her glance dropped confusedly, and we were silent 
 in momentary constraint. A fierce desire to seize her came 
 over me as I watched the changing expressions of her 
 mobile face, but I struggled to restrain myself, and to 
 keep the passion out of my voice that was consuming 
 my soul. 
 
 "You know this situation can't continue indefinitely, 
 don't you?" I asked quietly, after a time. 
 
 "What situation?" She did not raise her eyes. 
 
 "You and me." 
 
 "And why can't it?" 
 
 298. 
 
TWO CORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 "In the first place there are the changed relations with 
 your father . . ." 
 
 "And in the second . . . ?" 
 
 Again our eyes met momentarily, and again she veiled 
 hers imder her lashes. 
 
 "There's going to be another Person for one of us, one 
 of these days," I went on. "Friendship between the 
 sexes has only one outcome. It always ends in love 
 . . . somewhere." 
 
 "I suppose so," she assented softly. "But isn't it too 
 bad? Here we are, perfectly good friends, and yet . . . 
 it has to end . . . somewhere . . . Why couldn't 
 we go on — just as we are? . . . But I needn't ask the 
 question. It's foolish. It would be impossible, of course. 
 And yet . . ." 
 
 "Dorothy ..." I took her hand suddenly, and 
 held it fast. "Why should we wander in a maze of words 
 when we aren't concealing an3^hing. Our platonic 
 affection has to end . . . here and now." 
 
 "Must it?" Her voice was so low that I could determine 
 the words only by the movements of her lips. 
 
 "Do you have to ask that question? Look at me." 
 Slowly she raised her eyelids and met my gaze without 
 faltering. "You know you don't. You know you know 
 what is in my heart without my saying the words. You 
 know that I love you, dearest girl in all the world . . . 
 You know it, don't you . . . ?" 
 
 299 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "Yes," she whispered, "I know it." 
 
 "And you . . . -?" Our hearts met, like stars in 
 the firmament, like cx)rks in a bucket — each moved by 
 the same impulse, and to the same extent. 
 
 "Yes ... I do," she said. Then she laughed 
 tremulously, though the faintest suggestion of tears 
 glistened in her eyes. "I'd have told you so, too , . . 
 without your ever mentioning it. But I'm glad you 
 didn't make me. I'm glad you spoke first . . . You 
 don't know what you've saved me . . ." 
 
 Then I took her in my arms and kissed her. And I 
 could not bear to let her go. It was not a sudden gust of 
 passion that moved me. We had been long in reaching 
 each other. The reality was rather awesome. I was 
 half afraid it was not reality after all. 
 
 "I can't teU you that I love you better than ever a 
 woman was loved before," I cried, after a Uttle. "I can't 
 rhapsodize to you. I wish I could. I can't . . .'* not 
 in words, anyway." 
 
 "No," she laughed, "You couldn't. Neither of us 
 could. We couldn't suddenly turn romantic. We've 
 been realists too long. And we've drifted into this by 
 such slow stages — ^hopelessly matter-of-fact stages, too, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "Yes," I said thoughtfully. "It has been slow. Do 
 300 
 
TWO CORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 you remember — ^that first evening here — ^the dinner with 
 all the nuts?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "You asked me if I was disappointed in you. Re- 
 member that?" 
 
 "That wouldn't be easy to forget." 
 
 "Well, I wasn't . . . and yet I was. Somehow, 
 that night, in the midst of that crew, you seemed rather 
 pathetic. I felt that as I developed I would leave you 
 farther and farther behind . , ." 
 
 "If what you saw that night had really been me, you 
 wouldn't be here now." 
 
 "I nearly proposed to you that night. I swear I did. 
 You fascinated me. And when Harrower told me his 
 conception of you . . ." 
 
 "Poor Billy," she interrupted. I was not particularly 
 interested in that young man at the moment, and a pass- 
 ing flash of jealousy put a frown between my eyes. She 
 caught it and smiled. ■» 
 
 "Silly!" She patted me on the hand, and much molli- 
 fied, I went on. How primitive we are, for aU our civ- 
 ilization! 
 
 "And then, that day out at the Factory — when you let 
 me see you as you really were ... I fell in love with 
 you in earnest. But then my doubts of you gave way to 
 doubts of myself. I wasn't sure of what I was — of what 
 I wanted. I had to make sure of that. I had to . . ." 
 
 301 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "What an analyst you are . . . putting your 
 heart to the add test!" she laughed. 
 
 "WeU . . ." 
 
 "Oh, don't look downcast!" she cried. I suppose I'm a 
 queer person, but I like it that way. I want that kind of 
 love . . . It's firmer. It seems more a part of jrou 
 — something you can't escape from . . ." 
 
 "A part of me? My darling, it's all of me. And so are 
 you. You've made me find myself. You're the first 
 woman in my life before whom I've burned no incense, 
 the first woman I haven't idealized, about whom I cherish 
 no illusions. I don't worship you as one worships the 
 beauty in a simset — superstitiously, nor revere you, as 
 one reveres rehgion, nor want you occasionally, as one 
 wants charity. I love jrou with all the bitter selfishness 
 that one loves himself. I love you because I don't have 
 to dissemble with you, because I don't fear hurting your 
 feelings, because I can be as candid with 5rou as with my 
 own soul. I love you because there aren't any reserva- 
 tions between us, because we see into each other's holy 
 of holies, becatise there is no sex-barrier between us . . . 
 only a bond. Oh, my love . . . it's the circle of 
 life. I love you intensely because I'm intensely selfish 
 . . . because you've crept into my being and 
 changed it utterly . . . because . . ." 
 
 "What difference does it make," she cried, "Why we 
 love, if only we do?" 
 
 302 
 
TWO CORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 "It makes all the difference in the world. It means 
 that this isn't an infatuation of the moment — a mere 
 biologic affair . . . but that my whole thinking life 
 has been a search and a preparation for you. It means 
 that we haven't chosen each other just from propinquity 
 . . . not from accident . . . not for any of 
 the ordinary reasons that make people fall in love. We've 
 made our choice with the highest part of our selves. 
 . . . What we're doing is intensely rational. If 
 there is an}i;hing to thank heaven for, beyond the mere 
 fact of having you, it is the fact that I know why I have 
 you, and why I wanted and needed you. I never did 
 anything with clearer eyes, with greater confidence in 
 the future." 
 
 "There isn't a single thing between us, is there?" she 
 sighed happily. 
 
 But the grim black hand of reality is never very far 
 away, and her words seemed to bring it close, and make 
 it tear ruthlessly away the pink veil of joy that enveloped 
 me. I had an almost physical sense of exposure. 
 
 "Yes," I said, with ineffable misery, "there is some- 
 thing." 
 
 "Harlan — what?" There was terror in her voice. 
 
 "I'm out of a job. That's one thing." 
 
 "Oh — is that all? You don't suppose a man with a 
 reputation like you've made for yourself need be long 
 without one, do you?" 
 
 303 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "Oh, my dear — that isn't all the difficulty. You 
 mustn't forget your father. He assured me of his personal 
 regard for me . . . but I'm afraid his regard was an 
 abstract one. How do you suppose he'll look upon me as 
 a son-in-law?" 
 
 "He'll look upon you as a dutiful parent should!" she 
 cried defiantly. "The days of parental interference in 
 such matters have passed ... in this household, 
 anjnfvay!" 
 
 "That's all very well," said I hopelessly. "I don't fear 
 interference. But for your sake — I don't want opposi- 
 tion." 
 
 "There won't be any opposition. Watch me prove 
 it . . ." 
 
 Before I could make a move to dissuade her, she had 
 gone to the telephone and was speaking to her father 
 downstairs. 
 
 "Oh, Dad," I heard her say, suavely, "would you mind 
 coming up here for a moment? Yes — my den. Thank 
 you." Then she turned to me. "Now you watch how 
 beautifully things will turn out, for all your lugubrious 
 anticipations. I'm sorry to disappoint you — ^but there 
 won't be the least bit of trouble." 
 
 Mr. Gresham came in a moment later. He managed 
 to suppress his start of surprise at seeing me, but it was not 
 difficult to sense a certain disfavor in his crisp greeting. 
 
 "You wanted to see me, Dot?" 
 304 
 
TWO CORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 "Yes — ^please sit down here beside me, Daddy . . . 
 I want to — ^to — tell you — something." 
 
 "I surmised as much when you asked me up here," her 
 father said drily. "What is it?" 
 
 "Well, I . . . that is, we . . ." She looked 
 at me and winked broadly. "We have decided that we 
 — er — ^love each other . . . and we — er — ^want the 
 parental blessing!" She looked at him half defiantly as 
 she spoke, and I caught a marked resemblance between 
 father and daughter. 
 
 Mr. Gresham did not so much as move an eyelash. It 
 was as if she had said something supremely obvious. But 
 I felt that his seeming indifference was only a well- 
 assumed mask to cover the turmoil that must rage 
 within. 
 
 "Oh," he said finally, seeming to swallow hard, "so 
 that's the situation, is it?" Then he surveyed me — ^rather 
 grimly, I thought. "So you want to marry my daughter, 
 eh?" 
 
 I nodded my head, feeling painfully sheepish. He was 
 silent for an interminable pause, chewing his mustache 
 thoughtfully, and Dorothy grew restive imder the strain. 
 
 "Now, Daddy!" she burst out finally, "why don't you 
 do as you're expected to do, and give us your blessing? 
 One might think, to look at you, that you weren't de- 
 lighted. Now please!" 
 
 30s 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 He Icoked at her, unsmiling. "They might, eh? Well, 
 let me tell you, daughter, that . . ." 
 
 But whatever were the words that were on his lips, he 
 was not destined to utter them. The sharp jangle of the 
 telephone bell interrupted him, and he paused, while 
 Dorothy went to the instrument. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "this is Mr. Gresham's residence. 
 Who? Oh yes — where? . . . Why right here . . . 
 He's here now. Yes — certainly. Just a moment." Then 
 she tvimed to us. "It's for you, Harlan." 
 
 "Hello," I said, taking the receiver. "This is Harlan 
 Chandos speaking." 
 
 "Mr. Chandos," the voice at the other end of the wire 
 seemed tmcannily calm in view of the words it uttered. 
 "This is the Chicago Examiner. Sorry to disturb you, 
 but your plant is on &e, and I just wanted to find out 
 if . . ." 
 
 "What plant?" I whispered, keeping my mouth dose to 
 the transmitter, so that the others in the room could not 
 hear me, "The Gresham Company's?" 
 
 "Yes," said the voice, "it's been burning several hours. 
 Can you tell me . . ?" 
 
 "I can't tell you anything," I said sharply. "I'm going 
 out there now." I waited to hear no more. The receiver 
 was slammed on the hook, and I turned to confront 
 Dorothy and her father, who watched me anxiously. 
 
 "I'm sorry," I said, forcing myself to appear very calm, 
 306 
 
TWO CORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 "but I'm afraid I'll have to leave you. There's been a fire 
 near the plant, and I think I'll run out and see what's 
 happened." 
 
 "A fire?" Gresham's eyes were wide, and it was plain 
 to see rising excitement in his manner. 
 
 "Oh, just a little one," I reassured him. "All over now, 
 an3^way, I'll jvist run out and see that the watchmen are 
 on the job." 
 
 "I think I'll go myself," said Gresham suddenly. But 
 Dorothy put her hand over his mouth. "Nonsense ! You 
 won't do anything of the sort," she cried imperiously. 
 "The fire's only a little one, Harlan says, and it's all over 
 . . . You couldn't do anything, anyway." I chimed 
 in with my protests against his going, and he suffered him- 
 self finally to be forced back into his chair. 
 
 "Well," I said, from the doorway, "this unforttmate 
 interruption rather postpones the discussion of the matter 
 before us. But it may be that my absence will make the 
 discussion easier for you two." 
 
 Dorothy followed me into the hall, and in a sudden 
 spirit of devilment I put my arm arotmd her waist. But 
 I felt ashamed of myself immediately after, when I saw 
 her father wince. It was taking rather an tinfair advan- 
 tage of him. 
 
 "It isn't a little fire, is it?" she whispered suspiciously, 
 as I was putting on my coat down stairs. "It's a big one 
 . . . tell me the truth." 
 
 307 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 "It's been burning several hours . . . That's all 
 I know about it myself. It's not a little one, though — 
 I'm sure of that." 
 
 "Wait a minute." Before I had time to protest she 
 had fled up the stairs, and a moment later reappeared with 
 a cloak about her shoulders. 
 
 "I'm going with you," she explained, unheeding my 
 mute remonstrances, "I've ordered the car. Come on 
 — don't stand there gaping at me. Father'll be after us 
 in a moment. I just called up to him that I was going 
 . . . and I didn't wait to hear his answer. Come on." 
 
 She was in the motor and waiting before the echo of my 
 objections to her mad whim had died from the air. There 
 was nothing for me to do but follow. I got in beside her 
 and the machine rolled off. 
 
 , "To the factory, Pavd," she called through the tube, 
 "and see how fast you can get us there !" Then she turned 
 to me — "Don't you really know any more about the fire 
 than that there is one?" 
 
 "Not a thing. It may be a false alarm ... or a 
 hoax," I added hopefully. 
 
 But as we sped out Archer Avenue the rapidly increas- 
 ing glare in the sky showed us that my optimism was ilU 
 founded. In a short time we began to smell smoke, and 
 then, a few moments later, the cair came to a sharp stop. 
 I looked out, and saw a line of hose across the street. 
 
 308 
 
TWO CORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 "We can't go any further, Dorothy," I cried. "You stay 
 here, and . . ." 
 
 "Don't be silly . . . I'm coming with you!" 
 
 "Come on, then." I could hear the muffled pant of the 
 engines not far away, and my heart was pounding with 
 excitement. Without further words, save for a brief order 
 to the chauGfeur, we set off on the run. 
 
 "You're not much of a hot-house flower," I shouted, as 
 I helped her over a puddle, and found empty air where her 
 trusting arm should have been. 
 
 "Don't worry about me," she laughed back at me. "I 
 can take care of myself." I could have cheered for the 
 joy and the pride I felt in her. But such thoughts were 
 driven from my mind at the sight that met our gaze as we 
 rounded the comer. 
 
 It was amazing. It looked as if oil had been poured on 
 every portion of the plant; there seemed scarcely an inch 
 of it that was not aflame. The north end, in which the 
 offices had been, had already been demolished. Naught 
 remained but a stark and smoking wall, half -enveloped in 
 steam from the water stiU being played upon it. But the 
 other buildings were alive with fire from top to bottom. 
 Occasionally they would subside, only to burst forth again 
 with renewed strength. 
 
 As we gazed in horrified fascination, a little tongue of 
 flame curled around the comer of the machine shop, grew 
 rapidly larger, then suddenly vanished . . . finally 
 
 309 
 
THE JOY OP THE WORKING 
 
 to reappear as a seething furnace, when with a terrific 
 rumbling roar, the front wall crumbled and fell inward. 
 There was a little gasp beside me, and I felt a clutch on 
 my arm, but that was all. CJonversation between us was 
 impossible, for the noises that filled the night — ^the steady 
 chugging of the engines, the occasional hoarse cry, shouted 
 from no one knew whence to no one knew whither, the 
 crash of falling masonry, the hiss as the water struck the 
 hot bricks, the dull roar of the flames themselves. 
 
 "I've got to find out more about this," I cried to myself, 
 suddenly starting forward, momentarily forgetful of the 
 girl beside me. But a large blue arm barred the way. 
 
 "But I'm General Manager of the plant," I cried 
 petulantly. "I'm Mr. Chandos . . . You've got to 
 let me pass!" 
 
 "Sure I don't care if ye was th' Pope himself, sor," said 
 the officer cheerfully. "'Twud not help ye whin thot wall 
 fell, I'm thinkin' — as it's like t' do this very minute." 
 
 He was right. There was a premonitory crackle, fol- 
 lowed by warning shouts from the firemen, and an awe- 
 struck murmur from the great crowd, which in spite of the 
 hour, had gathered to witness the spectacle. Then, with 
 the rumbling thunder of a thousand cannon the whole side 
 of the main building seemed to vanish as if blown over by 
 a giant's breath. A sudden flare of light assailed_our eyes, 
 and went out as unexpectedly as it had come, leaving a 
 
 310 
 
TWO dORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 darkness the more profound for the contrast with the 
 tremendous illumination that had preceded it. 
 
 "That'll break its back, I'm thinldn'," said the police- 
 man philosophically. "They can get th' wather into her 
 now." 
 
 He was right again. There were a few more spurts of 
 flame, but they were only the gasps of the dying, and 
 rapidly lessened in intensity. One by one the firemen, 
 great, brawny fellows, men who practiced heroism as other 
 men work at trades, came back, sooty and tired, to harness 
 up their apparatus and return to their well-earned rest. 
 I could not restrain a youthful burst of emotion as I 
 watched them. Certainly no battlefield was ever graced 
 with braver men than they. 
 
 In a surprisingly short time the majority of the crowd 
 had dispersed, and only a few firemen remained to see that 
 their work was made permanent. I was able to secure 
 what information there was to be had — ^which was meagre 
 enough. All I could learn was that the alarm had been 
 turned in about eight o'clock, and that the fire had proved 
 a disastrous one because of the frame construction of the 
 btuldings, and their helter-skelter location. They had 
 btimt like a pile of packing cases. One of the insurance 
 men assured me pleasantly that he considered it a total 
 loss. I suppose he thought he was cheering me up! 
 
 "I'm not disposed to dispute him about that," said 
 3" 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 Dorothy quietly. She had followed me about evetywhere, 
 and had heard all that I had. 
 
 No, there was no disputing that. As we stood there, 
 silently staring at the grim black ruins, their completeness 
 was all too apparent. Here and there a shadowy figure 
 flitted about, but save for the swish of the water still 
 playing on an obstinate comer of the building, there was 
 a silence as profound and as desolate as must reign in the 
 heart of the Sahara, The Fire God had been nigh, and 
 all life seemed to have been snuffed out in his passing. 
 
 "It's ... a little sad, "isn't it?" murmured 
 Dorothy after a time. "It'll hurt Dad a lot. He built 
 those buildings, you know. He'll feel a real personal 
 loss." 
 
 A recollection came to me of McNamara polishing the 
 bolts on his dynamo . . . bolts that would never be 
 polished again. 
 
 "He's not the only one that will feel a loss," I said, more 
 to myself than to her. Then, suddenly, I bethought my- 
 self of the fleeting hours. "Good Lord 1" I cried when I 
 looked at my watch. "Have you any idea what time it 
 is? It's after two o'clock !' ' 
 
 "Perfectly shocking, isn't it?" she laughed, "and un- 
 chaperoned, too. Goodness, what will friend Grundy 
 say?" 
 
 "What'U your father say?" 
 
 "You will persist in wonying about father, I assure 
 312 
 
TWO CORKS— AND A CLEAN SLATE 
 
 you, my friend, that my worthy sire is not the ogre you 
 seem to think him I" 
 
 I started to laugh, but the incongruity between our 
 thoughtless pleasantries, and the horror of what we had 
 just witnessed choked the sound in my throat. The same 
 realization seemed to strike Dorothy, for she sobered, too. 
 
 Slowly, arm in arm, we picked our way back to the 
 machine, in which we found the imperturbable Paul fast 
 asleep. More than once, on the long ride back, Dorothy 
 herself nodded, and all but went to dreamland. I do not 
 tTiink there were ten words uttered between us all the 
 way home. The disaster had been too great, too sudden, 
 too altogether incomprehensible for mere discussion. 
 
 "Wait a moment, Paul," she said, when we got out of 
 the motor. That equable Gaul merely nodded, and drew 
 a cigarette from his pocket. 
 
 "What do you want Paul to wait for?" I asked. 
 
 "To take you home, of course. You don't suppose I'd 
 let you go in a street car at this hour of the morning, do 
 you?" 
 
 "My dear girl . . . you grieve me. I thought my 
 idol an altruist, and now ... I find her of clay!" 
 
 "Good-night, sweet," she smiled up at me as I kissed 
 her. "I'm not generous toward the rest of the world when 
 it's a question of your comfort !" 
 
 "Good-night, dearest girl in all the world . . . 
 313 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 pleasant dreams and sweet repose. Tell your father I'll 
 be over to breakfast." 
 
 Then we stood, reiterating reiterations on the oldest 
 theme in the world, the while Patd surveyed us in placid 
 cynicism. He had been married some years, and he 
 waited for us, therefore, without rancor. It afforded him 
 a certain sense of experienced superiority, I suppose. 
 
 When the door finally closed on Dorothy I went down 
 to the curb. Paul looked at me in some disfavor, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 "Have a cigar," I said cheerfully, "and — good night." 
 
 His jaw fell. "Ain't I goin' to take you home?" 
 
 And when I told him that he was free to hie himself to 
 his own downy couch as fast as he chose, all his sleepiness 
 seemed instantly to vanish, and he was wider awake than 
 he had been at any time during the evening. Of such are 
 the paradoxes of life! 
 
 I was tired, body and mind, as I trudged ofE toward the 
 street car, but I was very, very happy. Factories might 
 bum, jobs might vanish, but as long as love remained 
 . . . what mattered? 
 
 If I could set down on paper, in readable English, the 
 swirUng emotions that I felt then, I am sure that I would 
 dehght beyond bounds the most Romantic Young Person 
 that ever read love stories. And as I strode wearily along, 
 I whistled, very unmelodiously, but very happily, all the 
 sentimental tunes I knew. 
 
 314 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 
 
 IT was with feelings of ansrthing but pleasurable antici- 
 pation that I made my way to the Gresham home early 
 next morning. The meeting with my former employer 
 constituted an ordeal that I would gladly have shirked 
 had I seen any possible way of doing so. 
 
 Dorothy met me at the door. There was a faint red- 
 ness about her eyes that might indicate past tears, but her 
 greeting was cheery enough. 
 
 "Father's in the library waiting for you," she said, and 
 I followed her up the staircase. I felt very much as if I 
 were being taken in to "see the body." 
 
 Mr. Gresham greeted me pleasantly, but there was a 
 pitiful lack of his usual brusque assurance. I would rather 
 he had insulted me. For the first time in our acquaint- 
 ance I realized that he was an old man. His voice had 
 an inescapable suggestion of a tremble to it, and there was 
 a stiffness in his movements that I had never seen before. 
 
 I seated myself, at his invitation, and stared at him 
 utterly vmable to say anything. He was the first to break 
 the painful silence. 
 
 "Well . . . it was pretty complete, wasn't it?" He 
 smiled quizzically. 
 
 31S 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 I could only nod my head dumbly. But his next words 
 made me open my eyes wide in astonishment. 
 
 "I'm not the one that really sufEers, though," he said 
 very thoughtfully. "I've got insurance. But think of 
 the poor devils that will be thrown out of work . . ." 
 
 I suppose my face must have revealed my amazement, 
 for he smiled broadly. "That astonishes you, doesn't it? 
 Well, it astonishes me just as much. I didn't sleep very 
 much last night ... I was too busy thinking. 
 Strange thoughts they were ... I was bewildered at 
 them. I learned about the fire Portly after you left 
 . . . and the thought of the people thrown out of work 
 was almost the first one I had! It proved . . . well, 
 it proved that you've beaten me, young man. You've 
 beaten me. You've made me think things I never thought 
 before . . . never thought I could think. And it 
 hurts an old man to learn. It hurts like the devil . . ." 
 
 There was a long, pregnant pause, while Gresham gazed 
 out of the window, lost in meditation. Presently he 
 turned toward me again and studied me thoughtfully. 
 
 "The woman who paints her face and dyes her hair 
 tr3nng to keep young, is a fool," he said. "We can't fight 
 death . . . and we can't fight youth. What are 
 Tennyson's lines — 'The old order changeth, yielding place 
 to new, and God fulfils Himself in many ways, lest one 
 good custom should corrupt the world.' We can't hang on 
 forever. We've got to die. I can fight you . . . and 
 
 316 
 
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 
 
 I can whip you. But you're only one. I can't fight your 
 generation. For every one of you that I can drop, there 
 are thousands to take your place. You've won, my boy 
 . . . you've won . . . just as you said you 
 would. I'm whipped . . . and I know it. It's not 
 a pleasant pill, but I've got to swallow it none the less. 
 Some day, when you, too, are old, you'll know how bitter 
 it is . . ." 
 
 I stared at him, only half comprehending. But he 
 seemed to be talking more to himself than to me, and my 
 silence did not deter him. He went on in the same quiet 
 tone — 
 
 "I fired you the other day because I was afraid of you. 
 I thought I could win against what you represented by 
 getting you out of the way. But I can't. It's fighting 
 shadows. I tried to hold the world back . . . but I 
 couldn't. No man can. And now the factory's gone. 
 It's as if part of my body — ^part of my soul — ^had gone 
 with it . . . burnt up. And I can't begin over again. 
 I'm too old I'm not very well. I'm afraid of the shad- 
 ows. And I'm no longer sure of mj^self ... of what 
 I believe. Well, I'm through. I've laid down my arms 
 . . . The Gresham Food Products Company is yours 
 to do with as you will." 
 
 He bowed his head. Dorothy was already in tears, and 
 I confess that there was an tuicomfortable swelling in my 
 own throat at the pathos of the spectacle. But still I 
 
 317 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 could say nothing, and the three of us sat in heavy silence. 
 
 Finally the old man stood up, and went to one of the 
 windows. "It is spring," he cried, with more life in his 
 voice, throwing up ciulain after curtain, "the time for 
 new things. Let in the sunlight. Don't weep, my 
 daughter. I have run my course, played my part, and 
 now, when the curtain falls at my exit . . . 'let there 
 be no sadness of farewell.' Here . . . cheer up — 
 both of you! One would think you were officiating at a 
 funeral. Can't you see that it's a birth? Ring out the 
 old. The King is dead . . . long live the King! 
 
 "My boy," he went on softly, as he took my hand, and 
 held it, "you are in command from now on. Play the 
 game the way you think you ought to play it . . . and 
 steer your course by no signals outside your own con- 
 science. Care for nobody's respect but your own. And 
 when the day comes for you to lay down the sceptre — ■- 
 don't shirk your destiny. No man can sweep back the 
 tide of time . . . Never forget it." 
 
 "Dorothy," he turned to his daughter. "I have given 
 this man all I can give. I caimot give him you, because 
 you are not mine to give. But if you give yourself . . 
 you have my blessing. I could not give it to you last 
 night : I cannot keep it from you now. Stick to him, Dot, 
 my girl, and help him play the game out!" 
 
 With that he left us. For a long time we were silent. 
 There was something too indescribably pathetic about 
 
 318 
 
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 
 
 the old king stepping down from his throne for us to dis- 
 cuss it in crude words. Each knew what the other thought 
 and there was no need for speech. 
 
 Dorothy was the first to break the silence. "Come 
 here," she said, from her position by the window. I went 
 over and stood beside her. "See that old tree out there. 
 It looks quite dead, doesn't it? But see the little buds 
 just beginning to come out. Nothing dies, after all. 
 Things just change." 
 
 "Sometimes the changes are pretty sad," I said, thinking 
 of the old man's wistful abdication. 
 
 "Sad only when you look back instead of forward. Oh, 
 my man, think what lies before you . . . what oppor- 
 tunities are yours now !" she cried with radiant enthusiasm. 
 "Think of the wonders you can accomplish!" 
 
 "Think of the wonders we can accomplish!" I cor- 
 rected her, smiling happily, already forgetting the death 
 that had given me life. 
 
 "Yes . . . we" she said very seriously. "This is 
 my opportunity, too. I'm through with playing at life. 
 I'm through with living to play. I'm going to work from 
 now on . . . with you and jor you ... if you'll 
 let me . . ." 
 
 "If I'll let you! . . . Heavens! girl, haven't you 
 made me what I am!" 
 
 "No ... I have not made you. Perhaps I have 
 
 319 
 
THE JOY OF THE WORKING 
 
 helped — a. very little. But it is life itself that has really 
 made you . . . my artist-business man!" 
 
 "Artist . . . that's it!" I cried. "Artist! I can- 
 not paint . . . but oh, my darling, with time for my 
 canvas, and flesh and blood for my pigments, and life itself 
 for subject, I wiUmakeapicture . . a real picture . ." 
 
 "We'll work," she said softly, "you and I . . . not 
 for money, afld not for fame . . . just for the joy 
 of the working." 
 
 I put my arm about her. "For the joy of the working," 
 I echoed. "It's the only way." 
 
 FINIS 
 
 320 
 
F*l«? 
 
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