hotel—not to have to go home ever before twelve, if he did
not wish—to have good clothes—interesting company,
maybe—a good time, gee!
And as he hurried on about his various errands now, it
occurred to him as a final and shrewd and delicious thought
that he need not go home on such nights as he wished to
go to a theater or anything like that. He could just stay
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down-town and say he had to work. And that with free
meals and good clothes—think of that!
The mere thought of all this was so astonishing and
entrancing that he could not bring himself to think of it too
much. He must wait and see. He must wait and see just
how much he would make here in this perfectly marvelous-
marvelous realm.
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Chapter 6
AND as conditions stood, the extraordinary economic and
social inexperience of the Griffiths—Asa and Elvira—
dovetailed all too neatly with his dreams. For neither Asa
nor Elvira had the least knowledge of the actual character
of the work upon which he was about to enter, scarcely any
more than he did, or what it might mean to him morally,
imaginatively, financially, or in any other way. For neither of
them had ever stopped in a hotel above the fourth class in
all their days. Neither one had ever eaten in a restaurant of
a class that catered to other than individuals of their own
low financial level. That there could be any other forms of
work or contact than those involved in carrying the bags of
guests to and from the door of a hotel to its office, and back
again, for a boy of Clyde’s years and temperament, never
occurred to them. And it was naïvely assumed by both that
the pay for such work must of necessity be very small
anywhere, say five or six dollars a week, and so actually
below Clyde’s deserts and his years.
And in view of this, Mrs. Griffiths, who was more practical
than her husband at all times, and who was intensely
interested in Clyde’s economic welfare, as well as that of
her other children, was actually wondering why Clyde
should of a sudden become so enthusiastic about changing
to this new situation, which, according to his own story,
involved longer hours and not so very much more pay, if
any. To be sure, he had already suggested that it might
lead to some superior position in the hotel, some clerkship
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or other, but he did not know when that would be, and the
other had promised rather definite fulfillment somewhat
earlier—as to money, anyhow.
But seeing him rush in on Monday afternoon and announce
that he had secured the place and that forthwith he must
change his tie and collar and get his hair cut and go back
and report, she felt better about it. For never before had
she seen him so enthusiastic about anything, and it was
something to have him more content with himself—not so
moody, as he was at times.
Yet, the hours which he began to maintain now—from six in
the morning until midnight—with only an occasional early
return on such evenings as he chose to come home when
he was not working—and when he troubled to explain that
he had been let off a little early—together with a certain
eager and restless manner—a desire to be out and away
from his home at nearly all such moments as he was not in
bed or dressing or undressing, puzzled his mother and Asa,
also. The hotel! The hotel! He must always hurry off to the
hotel, and all that he had to report was that he liked it ever
so much, and that he was doing all right, he thought. It was
nicer work than working around a soda fountain, and he
might be making more money pretty soon—he couldn’t tell
—but as for more than that he either wouldn’t or couldn’t
say.
And all the time the Griffiths—father and mother—were
feeling that because of the affair in connection with Esta,
they should really be moving away from Kansas City—
should go to Denver. And now more than ever, Clyde was
insisting that he did not want to leave Kansas City. They
might go, but he had a pretty good job now and wanted to
stick to it. And if they left, he could get a room somewhere—
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and would be all right—a thought which did not appeal to
them at all.
But in the meantime what an enormous change in Clyde’s
life. Beginning with that first evening, when at 5:45, he
appeared before Mr. Whipple, his immediate superior, and
was approved—not only because of the fit of his new
uniform, but for his general appearance—the world for him
had changed entirely. Lined up with seven others in the
servants’ hall, immediately behind the general offices in the
lobby, and inspected by Mr. Whipple, the squad of eight
marched at the stroke of six through a door that gave into
the lobby on the other side of the staircase from where
stood Mr. Whipple’s desk, then about and in front of the
general registration office to the long bench on the other
side. A Mr. Barnes, who alternated with Mr. Whipple, then
took charge of the assistant captain’s desk, and the boys
seated themselves—Clyde at the foot—only to be called
swiftly and in turn to perform this, that and the other service
—while the relieved squad of Mr. Whipple was led away
into the rear servants’ hall as before, where they disbanded.
“Cling!”
The bell on the room clerk’s desk had sounded and the first
boy was going.
“Cling!” It sounded again and a second boy leaped to his
feet.
“Front!”—“Center door!” called Mr. Barnes, and a third boy
was skidding down the long marble floor toward that
entrance to seize the bags of an incoming guest, whose
white whiskers and youthful, bright tweed suit were visible
to Clyde’s uninitiated eyes a hundred feet away. A
mysterious and yet sacred vision—a tip!
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“Front!” It was Mr. Barnes calling again. “See what 913
wants—ice-water, I guess.” And a fourth boy was gone.
Clyde, steadily moving up along the bench and adjoining
Hegglund, who had been detailed to instruct him a little,
was all eyes and ears and nerves. He was so tense that he
could hardly breathe, and fidgeted and jerked until finally
Hegglund exclaimed: “Now, don’t get excited. Just hold your
horses, will yuh? You’ll be all right. You’re jist like I was
when I begun—all noives. But dat ain’t de way. Easy’s what
you gotta be aroun’ here. An’ you wants to look as dough
you wasn’t seein’ nobody nowhere—just lookin’ to what ya
got before ya.”
“Front!” Mr. Barnes again. Clyde was scarcely able to keep
his mind on what Hegglund was saying. “115 wants some
writing paper and pens.” A fifth boy had gone.
“Where do you get writing paper and pens if they want
’em?” He pleaded of his instructor, as one who was about
to die might plead.
“Off’n de key desk, I toldja. He’s to de left over dere. He’ll
give ’em to ya. An’ you gits ice-water in de hall we lined up
in just a minute ago—at dat end over dere, see—you’ll see
a little door. You gotta give dat guy in dere a dime oncet in
a while or he’ll get sore.”
“Cling!” The room clerk’s bell. A sixth boy had gone without
a word to supply some order in that direction.
“And now remember,” continued Hegglund, seeing that he
himself was next, and cautioning him for the last time, “if
dey wants drinks of any kind, you get ’em in de grill over
dere off’n de dining-room. An’ be sure and git de names of
de drinks straight or dey’ll git sore. An’ if it’s a room you’re
showing, pull de shades down to-night and turn on de
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lights. An’ if it’s anyt’ing from de dinin’-room you gotta see
de head-waiter—he gets de tip, see.”
“Front!” He was up and gone.
And Clyde was number one. And number four was already
seating himself again by his side—but looking shrewdly
around to see if anybody was wanted anywhere.
“Front!” It was Mr. Barnes. Clyde was up and before him,
grateful that it was no one coming in with bags, but worried
for fear it might be something that he would not understand
or could not do quickly.
“See what 882 wants.” Clyde was off toward one of the two
elevators marked, “employees,” the proper one to use, he
thought, because he had been taken to the twelfth floor that
way, but another boy stepping out from one of the fast
passenger elevators cautioned him as to his mistake.
“Goin’ to a room?” he called. “Use the guest elevators.
Them’s for the servants or anybody with bundles.”