mere mention of so large a sum. From four to six dollars!
Why, that was twenty-eight to forty-two dollars a week! He
could scarcely believe it. And that in addition to the fifteen
dollars a month and board. And there was no charge, as
Mr. Squires now explained, for the handsome uniforms the
boys wore. But it might not be worn or taken out of the
place. His hours, as Mr. Squires now proceeded to explain,
would be as follows: On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays
and Sundays, he was to work from six in the morning until
noon, and then, with six hours off, from six in the evening
until midnight. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, be
need only work from noon until six, thus giving him each
alternate afternoon or evening to himself. But all his meals
were to be taken outside his working hours and he was to
report promptly in uniform for line-up and inspection by his
superior exactly ten minutes before the regular hours of his
work began at each watch.
An American Tragedy
56
As for some other things which were in his mind at the time,
Mr. Squires said nothing. There were others, as he knew,
who would speak for him. Instead he went on to add, and
then quite climactically for Clyde at that time, who had been
sitting as one in a daze: “I suppose you are ready to go to
work now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” he replied.
“Very good!” Then he got up and opened the door which
had shut them in. “Oscar,” he called to a boy seated at the
head of the bell-boy bench, to which a tallish, rather
oversized youth in a tight, neat-looking uniform responded
with alacrity. “Take this young man here—Clyde Griffiths is
your name, isn’t it?—up to the wardrobe on the twelfth and
see if Jacobs can find a suit to fit. But if he can’t tell him to
alter it by to-morrow. I think the one Silsbee wore ought to
be about right for him.”
Then he turned to his assistant at the desk who was at the
moment looking on. “I’m giving him a trial, anyhow,” he
commented. “Have one of the boys coach him a little to-
night or whenever he starts in. Go ahead, Oscar,” he called
to the boy in charge of Clyde. “He’s green at this stuff, but I
think he’ll do,” he added to his assistant, as Clyde and
Oscar disappeared in the direction of one of the elevators.
Then he walked off to have Clyde’s name entered upon the
payroll.
In the meantime, Clyde, in tow of this new mentor, was
listening to a line of information such as never previously
had come to his ears anywhere.
“You needn’t be frightened, if you ain’t never worked at
anything like dis before,” began this youth, whose last name
was Hegglund as Clyde later learned, and who hailed from
Jersey City, New Jersey, exotic lingo, gestures and all. He
An American Tragedy
57
was tall, vigorous, sandy-haired, freckled, genial and
voluble. They had entered upon an elevator labeled
“employees.”“It ain’t so hard. I got my first job in Buffalo
t’ree years ago and I never knowed a t’ing about it up to dat
time. All you gotta do is to watch de udders an’ see how
dey do, see. Yu get dat, do you?”
Clyde, whose education was not a little superior to that of
his guide, commented quite sharply in his own mind on the
use of such words as “knowed,” and “gotta”—also upon
“t’ing,”“dat,”“udders,” and so on, but so grateful was he for
any courtesy at this time that he was inclined to forgive his
obviously kindly mentor anything for his geniality.
“Watch whoever’s doin’ anyt’ing, at first, see, till you git to
know, see. Dat’s de way. When de bell rings, if you’re at de
head of de bench, it’s your turn, see, an’ you jump up and
go quick. Dey like you to be quick around here, see. An’
whenever you see any one come in de door or out of an
elevator wit a bag, an’ you’re at de head of de bench, you
jump, wedder de captain rings de bell or calls ‘front’ or not.
Sometimes he’s busy or ain’t lookin’ an’ he wants you to do
dat, see. Look sharp, cause if you don’t get no bags, you
don’t get no tips, see. Everybody dat has a bag or anyt’ing
has to have it carried for ’em, unless dey won’t let you have
it, see.
“But be sure and wait somewhere near de desk for whoever
comes in until dey sign up for a room,” he rattled on as they
ascended in the elevator. “Most every one takes a room.
Den de clerk’ll give you de key an’ after dat all you gotta do
is to carry up de bags to de room. Den all you gotta do is to
turn on de lights in de batroom and closet, if dere is one, so
dey’ll know where dey are, see. An’ den raise de curtains in
de day time or lower ’em at night, an’ see if dere’s towels in
de room, so you can tell de maid if dere ain’t, and den if dey
An American Tragedy
58
don’t give you no tip, you gotta go, only most times, unless
you draw a stiff, all you gotta do is hang back a little—make
a stall, see—fumble wit de door-key or try de transom, see.
Den, if dey’re any good, dey’ll hand you a tip. If dey don’t,
you’re out, dat’s all, see. You can’t even look as dough you
was sore, dough—nottin’ like dat, see. Den you come down
an’ unless dey wants ice-water or somepin, you’re troo,
see. It’s back to de bench, quick. Dere ain’t much to it. Only
you gotta be quick all de time, see, and not let any one get
by you comin’ or goin’—dat’s de main t’ing.
“An’ after dey give you your uniform, an’ you go to work,
don’t forgit to give de captain a dollar after every watch
before you leave, see—two dollars on de day you has two
watches, and a dollar on de day you has one, see? Dat’s de
way it is here. We work togedder like dat, an’ you gotta do
dat if you want a hold your job. But dat’s all. After dat all de
rest is yours.”
Clyde saw.
A part of his twenty-four or thirty-two dollars as he figured it
was going glimmering, apparently—eleven or twelve all told
—but what of it! Would there not be twelve or fifteen or
even more left? And there were his meals and his uniform.
Kind Heaven! What a realization of paradise! What a
consummation of luxury!
Mr. Hegglund of Jersey City escorted him to the twelfth floor
and into a room where they found on guard a wizened’ and
grizzled little old man of doubtful age and temperament,
who forthwith outfitted Clyde with a suit that was so near a
fit that, without further orders, it was not deemed necessary
to alter it. And trying on various caps, there was one that
fitted him—a thing that sat most rakishly over one ear—
only, as Hegglund informed him, “You’ll have to get dat hair
of yours cut. Better get it clipped behind. It’s too long.” And
An American Tragedy
59
with that Clyde himself had been in mental agreement
before he spoke. His hair certainly did not look right in the
new cap. He hated it now. And going downstairs, and
reporting to Mr. Whipple, Mr. Squires’ assistant, the latter
had said: “Very well. It fits all right, does it? Well, then, you
go on here at six. Report at five-thirty and be here in your
uniform at five-forty-five for inspection.”
Whereupon Clyde, being advised by Hegglund to go then
and there to get his uniform and take it to the dressing-
room in the basement, and get his locker from the locker-
man, he did so, and then hurried most nervously out—first
to get a hair-cut and afterwards to report to his family on his
great luck.
He was to be a bell-boy in the great Hotel Green-Davidson.
He was to wear a uniform and a handsome one. He was to
make—but he did not tell his mother at first what he was to
make, truly—but more than eleven or twelve at first,
anyhow, he guessed—he could not be sure. For now, all at
once, he saw economic independence ahead for himself, if
not for his family, and he did not care to complicate it with
any claims which a confession as to his real salary would
most certainly inspire. But he did say that he was to have
his meals free—because that meant eating away from
home, which was what he wished. And in addition he was
to live and move always in the glorious atmosphere of this