Griffiths smiled so cynically? And what sort of a woman was
this Mrs. Braley? Had he done wisely to come on here?
Would this family do anything for him now that he was here?
It was thus that, strolling west along River Street on which
were a number of other kinds of factories, and then north
through a few other streets that held more factories—tin-
ware, wickwire, a big vacuum carpet cleaning plant, a rug
manufacturing company, and the like—that he came finally
upon a miserable slum, the like of which, small as it was, he
had not seen outside of Chicago or Kansas City. He was so
irritated and depressed by the poverty and social angularity
and crudeness of it—all spelling but one thing, social
misery, to him—that he at once retraced his steps and
recrossing the Mohawk by a bridge farther west soon found
himself in an area which was very different indeed—a
region once more of just such homes as he had been
admiring before he left for the factory. And walking still
farther south, he came upon that same wide and tree-lined
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avenue—which he had seen before—the exterior
appearance of which alone identified it as the principal
residence thoroughfare of Lycurgus. It was so very broad
and well-paved and lined by such an arresting company of
houses. At once he was very much alive to the personnel of
this street, for it came to him immediately that it must be in
this street very likely that his uncle Samuel lived. The
houses were nearly all of French, Italian or English design,
and excellent period copies at that, although he did not
know it.
Impressed by their beauty and spaciousness, however, he
walked along, now looking at one and another, and
wondering which, if any, of these was occupied by his
uncle, and deeply impressed by the significance of so much
wealth. How superior and condescending his cousin Gilbert
must feel, walking out of some such place as this in the
morning.
Then pausing before one which, because of trees, walks,
newly-groomed if bloomless flower beds, a large garage at
the rear, a large fountain to the left of the house as he
faced it, in the center of which was a boy holding a swan in
his arms, and to the right of the house one lone cast iron
stag pursued by some cast iron dogs, he felt especially
impelled to admire, and charmed by the dignity of this
place, which was a modified form of old English, he now
inquired of a stranger who was passing—a middle-aged
man of a rather shabby working type, “Whose house is that,
mister?” and the man replied: “Why, that’s Samuel Griffiths’
residence. He’s the man who owns the big collar factory
over the river.”
At once Clyde straightened up, as though dashed with cold
water. His uncle’s! His residence! Then that was one of his
automobiles standing before the garage at the rear there.
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And there was another visible through the open door of the
garage.
Indeed in his immature and really psychically unilluminated
mind it suddenly evoked a mood which was as of roses,
perfumes, lights and music. The beauty! The ease! What
member of his own immediate family had ever even
dreamed that his uncle lived thus! The grandeur! And his
own parents so wretched—so poor, preaching on the
streets of Kansas City and no doubt Denver. Conducting a
mission! And although thus far no single member of this
family other than his chill cousin had troubled to meet him,
and that at the factory only, and although he had been so
indifferently assigned to the menial type of work that he
had, still he was elated and uplifted. For, after all, was he
not a Griffiths, a full cousin as well as a full nephew to the
two very important men who lived here, and now working
for them in some capacity at least? And must not that spell
a future of some sort, better than any he had known as yet?
For consider who the Griffiths were here, as opposed to
“who” the Griffiths were in Kansas City, say—or Denver.
The enormous difference! A thing to be as carefully
concealed as possible. At the same time, he was
immediately reduced again, for supposing the Griffiths here
—his uncle or his cousin or some friend or agent of theirs—
should now investigate his parents and his past? Heavens!
The matter of that slain child in Kansas City! His parents’
miserable makeshift life! Esta! At once his face fell, his
dreams being so thickly clouded over. If they should guess!
If they should sense!
Oh, the devil—who was he anyway? And what did he really
amount to? What could he hope for from such a great world
as this really, once they knew why he had troubled to come
here?
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A little disgusted and depressed he turned to retrace his
steps, for all at once he felt himself very much of a nobody.
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Chapter 6
THE room which Clyde secured this same day with the aid
of Mrs. Braley, was in Thorpe Street, a thoroughfare
enormously removed in quality if not in distance from that in
which his uncle resided. Indeed the difference was
sufficient to decidedly qualify his mounting notions of
himself as one who, after all, was connected with him. The
commonplace brown or gray or tan colored houses, rather
smoked or decayed, which fronted it—the leafless and
winter harried trees which in spite of smoke and dust
seemed to give promise of the newer life so near at hand—
the leaves and flowers of May. Yet as he walked into it with
Mrs. Braley, many drab and commonplace figures of men
and girls, and elderly spinsters resembling Mrs. Braley in
kind, were making their way home from the several
factories beyond the river. And at the door Mrs. Braley and
himself were received by a none-too-polished woman in a
clean gingham apron over a dark brown dress, who led the
way to a second floor room, not too small or uncomfortably
furnished—which she assured him he could have for four
dollars without board or seven and one-half dollars with—a
proposition which, seeing that he was advised by Mrs.
Braley that this was somewhat better than he would get in
most places for the same amount, he decided to take. And
here, after thanking Mrs. Braley, he decided to remain—
later sitting down to dinner with a small group of mill-town
store and factory employees, such as partially he had been
accustomed to in Paulina Street in Chicago, before moving
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to the better atmosphere of the Union League. And after
dinner he made his way out into the principal thoroughfares
of Lycurgus, only to observe such a crowd of nondescript
mill-workers as, judging these streets by day, he would not
have fancied swarmed here by night—girls and boys, men
and women of various nationalities, and types—Americans,
Poles, Hungarians, French, English—and for the most part
—if not entirely touched with a peculiar something—
ignorance or thickness of mind or body, or with a certain
lack of taste and alertness or daring, which seemed to mark
them one and all as of the basement world which he had
seen only this afternoon. Yet in some streets and stores,
particularly those nearer Wykeagy Avenue, a better type of
girl and young man who might have been and no doubt
were of the various office groups of the different companies
over the river—neat and active.
And Clyde, walking to and fro, from eight until ten, when as
though by pre-arrangement, the crowd in the more
congested streets seemed suddenly to fade away, leaving
them quite vacant. And throughout this time contrasting it
all with Chicago and Kansas City. (What would Ratterer
think if he could see him now—his uncle’s great house and
factory?) And perhaps because of its smallness, liking it—
the Lycurgus Hotel, neat and bright and with a brisk local
life seeming to center about it. And the post-office and a
handsomely spired church, together with an old and
interesting graveyard, cheek by jowl with an automobile
salesroom. And a new moving picture theater just around
the corner in a side street. And various boys and girls, men
and women, walking here and there, some of them flirting
as Clyde could see. And with a suggestion somehow
hovering over it all of hope and zest and youth—the hope
and zest and youth that is at the bottom of all the
constructive energy of the world everywhere. And finally
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returning to his room in Thorpe Street with the conclusion
that he did like the place and would like to stay here. That
beautiful Wykeagy Avenue! His uncle’s great factory! The
many pretty and eager girls he had seen hurrying to and fro!
In the meantime, in so far as Gilbert Griffiths was