An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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.

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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

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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

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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

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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