An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

the least of their troubles—their work and their heavy

material existence being all. In addition, not knowing just

what Clyde was, or what his coming might mean to their

separate and individual positions, they were inclined to be

dubious and suspicious.

After a week or two, however, coming to understand that

Clyde was a nephew of the president, a cousin of the

secretary of the company, and hence not likely to remain

here long in any menial capacity, they grew more friendly,

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but inclined in the face of the sense of subserviency which

this inspired in them, to become jealous and suspicious of

him in another way. For, after all, Clyde was not one of

them, and under such circumstances could not be. He

might smile and be civil enough—yet he would always be in

touch with those who were above them, would he not—or

so they thought. He was, as they saw it, part of the rich and

superior class and every poor man knew what that meant.

The poor must stand together everywhere.

For his part, however, and sitting about for the first few days

in this particular room eating his lunch, he wondered how

these men could interest themselves in what were to him

such dull and uninteresting items—the quality of the cloth

that was coming down in the webs—some minute flaws in

the matter of weight or weave—the last twenty webs hadn’t

looked so closely shrunk as the preceding sixteen; or the

Cranston Wickwire Company was not carrying as many

men as it had the month before—or the Anthony

Woodenware Company had posted a notice that the

Saturday half-holiday would not begin before June first this

year as opposed to the middle of May last year. They all

appeared to be lost in the humdrum and routine of their

work.

In consequence his mind went back to happier scenes. He

wished at times he were back in Chicago or Kansas City.

He though of Ratterer, Hegglund, Higby, Louise Ratterer,

Larry Doyle, Mr. Squires, Hortense—all of the young and

thoughtless company of which he had been a part, and

wondered what they were doing. What had become of

Hortense? She had got that fur coat after all—probably from

that cigar clerk and then had gone away with him after she

had protested so much feeling for him—the little beast.

After she had gotten all that money out of him. The mere

thought of her and all that she might have meant to him if

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things had not turned as they had, made him a little sick at

times. To whom was she being nice now? How had she

found things since leaving Kansas City? And what would

she think if she saw him here now or knew of his present

high connections? Gee! That would cool her a little. But she

would not think much of his present position. That was true.

But she might respect him more if she could see his uncle

and his cousin and this factory and their big house. It would

be like her then to try to be nice to him. Well, he would

show her, if he ever ran into her again—snub her, of

course, as no doubt he very well could by then.

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Chapter 7

IN SO far as his life at Mrs. Cuppy’s went, he was not so

very happily placed there, either. For that was but a

commonplace rooming and boarding house, which drew to

it, at best, such conservative mill and business types as

looked on work and their wages, and the notions of the

middle class religious world of Lycurgus as most essential

to the order and well being of the world. From the point of

view of entertainment or gayety, it was in the main a very

dull place.

At the same time, because of the presence of one Walter

Dillard—a brainless sprig who had recently come here from

Fonda, it was not wholly devoid of interest for Clyde. The

latter—a youth of about Clyde’s own age and equally

ambitious socially—but without Clyde’s tact or

discrimination anent the governing facts of life, was

connected with the men’s furnishing department of Stark

and Company. He was spry, avid, attractive enough

physically, with very light hair, a very light and feeble

mustache, and the delicate airs and ways of a small town

Beau Brummell. Never having had any social standing or

the use of any means whatsoever—his father having been

a small town dry goods merchant before him, who had failed

—he was, because of some atavistic spur or fillip in his own

blood, most anxious to attain some sort of social position.

But failing that so far, he was interested in and envious of

those who had it—much more so than Clyde, even. The

glory and activity of the leading families of this particular city

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had enormous weight with him—the Nicholsons, the Starks,

the Harriets, Griffiths, Finchleys, et cetera. And learning a

few days after Clyde’s arrival of his somewhat left-handed

connection with this world, he was most definitely

interested. What? A Griffiths! The nephew of the rich

Samuel Griffiths of Lycurgus! And in this boarding house!

Beside him at this table! At once his interest rose to where

he decided that he must cultivate this stranger as speedily

as possible. Here was a real social opportunity knocking at

his very door—a connecting link to one of the very best

families! And besides was he not young, attractive and

probably ambitious like himself—a fellow to play around

with if one could? He proceeded at once to make overtures

to Clyde. It seemed almost too good to be true.

In consequence he was quick to suggest a walk, the fact

that there was a certain movie just on at the Mohawk,

which was excellent—very snappy. Didn’t Clyde want to

go? And because of his neatness, smartness—a touch of

something that was far from humdrum or the heavy

practicality of the mill and the remainder of this boarding

house world, Clyde was inclined to fall in with him.

But, as he now thought, here were his great relatives and

he must watch his step here. Who knew but that he might

be making a great mistake in holding such free and easy

contacts as this. The Griffiths—as well as the entire world of

which they were a part—as he guessed from the general

manner of all those who even contacted him, must be very

removed from the commonalty here. More by instinct than

reason, he was inclined to stand off and look very superior—

more so since those, including this very youth on whom he

practised this seemed to respect him the more. And

although upon eager—and even—after its fashion,

supplicating request, he now went with this youth—still he

went cautiously. And his aloof and condescending manner

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Dillard at once translated as “class” and “connection.” And

to think he had met him in this dull, dubby boarding house

here. And on his arrival—at the very inception of his career

here.

And so his manner was that of the sycophant—although he

had a better position and was earning more money than

Clyde was at this time, twenty-two dollars a week,

“I suppose you’ll be spending a good deal of your time with

your relatives and friends here,” he volunteered on the

occasion of their first walk together, and after he had

extracted as much information as Clyde cared to impart,

which was almost nothing, while he volunteered a few,

most decidedly furbished bits from his own history. His

father owned a dry goods store now. He had come over

here to study other methods, et cetera. He had an uncle

here—connected with Stark and Company. He had met a

few—not so many as yet—nice people here, since he

hadn’t been here so very long himself—four months all told.

But Clyde’s relatives!

“Say your uncle must be worth over a million, isn’t he? They

say he is. Those houses in Wykeagy Avenue are certainly

the cats’. You won’t see anything finer in Albany or Utica or

Rochester either. Are you Samuel Griffiths’ own nephew?

You don’t say! Well, that’ll certainly mean a lot to you here.

I wish I had a connection like that. You bet I’d make it

count.”

He beamed on Clyde eagerly and hopefully, and through

him Clyde sensed even more how really important this

blood relation was. Only think how much it meant to this

strange youth.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Clyde dubiously, and yet very

much flattered by this assumption of intimacy. “I came on to

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learn the collar business, you know. Not to play about very

much. My uncle wants me to stick to that, pretty much.”

“Sure, sure. I know how that is,” replied Dillard, “that’s the

way my uncle feels about me, too. He wants me to stick