An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

as well cut and attractive.

Similarly, a not unrelated and yet different effect was

produced by that same youth who had first introduced

Clyde to the work here—Hegglund—who was one of the

older and more experienced bell-hops, and of considerable

influence with the others because of his genial and devil-

may-care attitude toward everything, outside the exact line

of his hotel duties. Hegglund was neither as schooled nor

as attractive as some of the others, yet by reason of a most

avid and dynamic disposition—plus a liberality where

money and pleasure were concerned, and a courage,

strength and daring which neither Doyle nor Ratterer nor

Kinsella could match—a strength and daring almost entirely

divested of reason at times—he interested and charmed

Clyde immensely. As he himself related to Clyde, after a

time, he was the son of a Swedish journeyman baker who

some years before in Jersey City had deserted his mother

and left her to make her way as best she could. In

consequence neither Oscar nor his sister Martha had had

any too much education or decent social experience of any

kind. On the contrary, at the age of fourteen he had left

Jersey City in a box car and had been making his way ever

since as best he could. And like Clyde, also, he was

insanely eager for all the pleasures which he had imagined

he saw swirling around him, and was for prosecuting

adventures in every direction, lacking, however, the

nervous fear of consequence which characterized Clyde.

Also he had a friend, a youth by the name of Sparser,

somewhat older than himself, who was chauffeur to a

wealthy citizen of Kansas City, and who occasionally

managed to purloin a car and so accommodate Hegglund

in the matter of brief outings here and there; which

courtesy, unconventional and dishonest though it might be,

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77

still caused Hegglund to feel that he was a wonderful fellow

and of much more importance than some of these others,

and to lend him in their eyes a luster which had little of the

reality which it suggested to them.

Not being as attractive as Doyle, it was not so easy for him

to win the attention of girls, and those he did succeed in

interesting were not of the same charm or import by any

means. Yet he was inordinately proud of such contacts as

he could effect and not a little given to boasting in regard to

them, a thing which Clyde took with more faith than would

most, being of less experience. For this reason Hegglund

liked Clyde, almost from the very first, sensing in him

perhaps a pleased and willing auditor.

So, finding Clyde on the bench beside him from time to

time, he had proceeded to continue his instructions. Kansas

City was a fine place to be if you knew how to live. He had

worked in other cities—Buffalo, Cleveland, Detroit, St. Louis

—before he came here, but he had not liked any of them

any better, principally—which was a fact which he did not

trouble to point out at the time—because he had not done

as well in those places as he had here. He had been a

dishwasher, car-cleaner, plumber’s helper and several

other things before finally, in Buffalo, he had been inducted

into the hotel business. And then a youth, working there,

but who was now no longer here, had persuaded him to

come on to Kansas City. But here:

“Say—de tips in dis hotel is as big as you’ll git anywhere, I

know dat. An’ what’s more, dey’s nice people workin’ here.

You do your bit by dem and dey’ll do right by you. I been

here now over a year an’ I ain’t got no complaint. Dat guy

Squires is all right if you don’t cause him no trouble. He’s

hard, but he’s got to look out for hisself, too—dat’s natural.

But he don’t fire nobody unless he’s got a reason. I know

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78

dat, too. And as for de rest dere’s no trouble. An’ when your

work’s troo, your time’s your own. Dese fellows here are

good sports, all o’ dem. Dey’re no four-flushers an’ no

tightwads, eider. Whenever dere’s anyting on—a good time

or sumpin’ like dat, dey’re on—nearly all of ’em. An’ dey

don’t mooch or grouch in case tings don’t work out right,

neider. I know dat, cause I been wit ’em now, lots o’ times.”

He gave Clyde the impression that these youths were all

the best of friends—close—all but Doyle, who was a little

standoffish, but not coldly so. “He’s got too many women

chasin’ him, dat’s all.” Also that they went here and there

together on occasion—to a dance hall, a dinner, a certain

gambling joint down near the river, a certain pleasure resort

—“Kate Sweeney’s”—where were some peaches of girls—

and so on and so forth, a world of such information as had

never previously been poured into Clyde’s ear, and that set

him meditating, dreaming, doubting, worrying and

questioning as to the wisdom, charm, delight to be found in

all this—also the permissibility of it in so far as he was

concerned. For had he not been otherwise instructed in

regard to all this all his life long? There was a great thrill

and yet a great question involved in all to which he was

now listening so attentively.

Again there was Thomas Ratterer, who was of a type which

at first glance, one would have said, could scarcely prove

either inimical or dangerous to any of the others. He was

not more than five feet four plump, with black hair and olive

skin, and with an eye that was as limpid as water and as

genial as could be. He, too, as Clyde learned after a time,

was of a nondescript family, and so had profited by no

social or financial advantages of any kind. But he had a

way, and was liked by all of these youths—so much so that

he was consulted about nearly everything. A native of

Wichita, recently moved to Kansas City, he and his sister

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79

were the principal support of a widowed mother. During

their earlier and formative years, both had seen their very

good-natured and sympathetic mother, of whom they were

honestly fond, spurned and abused by a faithless husband.

There had been times when they were quite without food.

On more than one occasion they had been ejected for non-

payment of rent. None too continuously Tommy and his

sister had been maintained in various public schools.

Finally, at the age of fourteen he had decamped to Kansas

City, where he had secured different odd jobs, until he

succeeded in connecting himself with the Green-Davidson,

and was later joined by his mother and sister who had

removed from Wichita to Kansas City to be with him.

But even more than by the luxury of the hotel or these

youths, whom swiftly and yet surely he was beginning to

decipher, Clyde was impressed by the downpour of small

change that was tumbling in upon him and making a small

lump in his right-hand pants pocket—dimes, nickels,

quarters and half-dollars even, which increased and

increased even on the first day until by nine o’clock he

already had over four dollars in his pocket, and by twelve,

at which hour he went off duty, he had over six and a half—

as much as previously he had earned in a week.

And of all this, as he then knew, he need only hand Mr.

Squires one—no more, Hegglund had said—and the rest,

five dollars and a half, for one evening’s interesting—yes,

delightful and fascinating—work, belonged to himself. He

could scarcely believe it. It seemed fantastic, Aladdinish,

really. Nevertheless, at twelve, exactly, of that first day a

gong had sounded somewhere—a shuffle of feet had been

heard and three boys had appeared—one to take Barnes’

place at the desk, the other two to answer calls. And at the

command of Barnes, the eight who were present were

ordered to rise, right dress and march away. And in the hall

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80

outside, and just as he was leaving, Clyde approached Mr.

Squires and handed him a dollar in silver. “That’s right,” Mr.

Squires remarked. No more. Then, Clyde, along with the

others, descended to his locker, changed his clothes and

walked out into the darkened streets, a sense of luck and a

sense of responsibility as to future luck so thrilling him as to

make him rather tremulous—giddy, even.

To think that now, at last, he actually had such a place. To

think that he could earn this much every day, maybe. He

began to walk toward his home, his first thought being that

he must sleep well and so be fit for his duties in the

morning. But thinking that he would not need to return to

the hotel before 11:30 the next day, he wandered into an all-