An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

Nevertheless when his parents began to talk of moving to

Denver, and suggested that he might secure work out

there, never assuming for a moment that he would not want

to go, he began to throw out hints to the effect that it might

be better if he did not. He liked Kansas City. What was the

use of changing? He had a job now and he might get

something better. But his parents, bethinking themselves of

Esta and the fate that had overtaken her, were not a little

dubious as to the outcome of such early adventuring on his

part alone. Once they were away, where would he live?

With whom? What sort of influence would enter his life,

who would be at hand to aid and council and guide him in

the straight and narrow path, as they had done? It was

something to think about.

But spurred by this imminence of Denver, which now daily

seemed to be drawing nearer, and the fact that not long

after this Mr. Sieberling, owing to his too obvious gallantries

in connection with the fair sex, lost his place in the drug

store, and Clyde came by a new and bony and chill superior

who did not seem to want him as an assistant, he decided

to quit—not at once, but rather to see, on such errands as

took him out of the store, if he could not find something

else. Incidentally in so doing, looking here and there, he

one day thought he would speak to the manager of the

fountain which was connected with the leading drug store in

the principal hotel of the city—the latter a great twelve-story

affair, which represented, as he saw it, the quintessence of

luxury and ease. Its windows were always so heavily

curtained; the main entrance (he had never ventured to

look beyond that) was a splendiferous combination of a

glass and iron awning, coupled with a marble corridor lined

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with palms. Often he had passed here, wondering with

boyish curiosity what the nature of the life of such a place

might be. Before its doors, so many taxis and automobiles

were always in waiting.

To-day, being driven by the necessity of doing something

for himself, he entered the drug store which occupied the

principal corner, facing 14th Street at Baltimore, and finding

a girl cashier in a small glass cage near the door, asked of

her who was in charge of the soda fountain. Interested by

his tentative and uncertain manner, as well as his deep and

rather appealing eyes, and instinctively judging that he was

looking for something to do, she observed: “Why, Mr.

Secor, there, the manager of the store.” She nodded in the

direction of a short, meticulously dressed man of about

thirty-five, who was arranging an especial display of toilet

novelties on the top of a glass case. Clyde approached him,

and being still very dubious as to how one went about

getting anything in life, and finding him engrossed in what

he was doing, stood first on one foot and then on the other,

until at last, sensing some one was hovering about for

something, the man turned: “Well?” he queried.

“You don’t happen to need a soda fountain helper, do you?”

Clyde cast at him a glance that said as plain as anything

could, “If you have any such place, I wish you would please

give it to me. I need it.”

“No, no, no,” replied this individual, who was blond and

vigorous and by nature a little irritable and contentious. He

was about to turn away, but seeing a flicker of

disappointment and depression pass over Clyde’s face, he

turned and added, “Ever work in a place like this before?”

“No place as fine as this. No, sir,” replied Clyde, rather

fancifully moved by all that was about him. “I’m working

now down at Mr. Klinkle’s store at 7th and Brooklyn, but it

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isn’t anything like this one and I’d like to get something

better if I could.”

“Uh,” went on his interviewer, rather pleased by the

innocent tribute to the superiority of his store. “Well, that’s

reasonable enough. But there isn’t anything here right now

that I could offer you. We don’t make many changes. But if

you’d like to be a bell-boy, I can tell you where you might

get a place. They’re looking for an extra boy in the hotel

inside there right now. The captain of the boys was telling

me he was in need of one. I should think that would be as

good as helping about a soda fountain, any day.”

Then seeing Clyde’s face suddenly brighten, he added: “But

you mustn’t say that I sent you, because I don’t know you.

Just ask for Mr. Squires inside there, under the stairs, and

he can tell you all about it.”

At the mere mention of work in connection with so imposing

an institution as the Green-Davidson, and the possibility of

his getting it, Clyde first stared, felt himself tremble the least

bit with excitement, then thanking his advisor for his

kindness, went direct to a green-marbled doorway which

opened from the rear of this drug-store into the lobby of the

hotel. Once through it, be beheld a lobby, the like of which,

for all his years but because of the timorous poverty that

had restrained him from exploring such a world, was more

arresting, quite, than anything he had seen before. It was all

so lavish. Under his feet was a checkered black-and-white

marble floor. Above him a coppered and stained and gilded

ceiling. And supporting this, a veritable forest of black

marble columns as highly polished as the floor—glassy

smooth. And between the columns which ranged away

toward three separate entrances, one right, one left and

one directly forward toward Dalrymple Avenue—were

lamps, statuary, rugs, palms, chairs, divans, tête-à-têtes—a

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prodigal display. In short it was compact, of all that gauche

luxury of appointment which, as some one once

sarcastically remarked, was intended to supply

“exclusiveness to the masses.” Indeed, for an essential

hotel in a great and successful American commercial city, it

was almost too luxurious. Its rooms and hall and lobbies

and restaurants were entirely too richly furnished, without

the saving grace of either simplicity or necessity.

As Clyde stood, gazing about the lobby, he saw a large

company of people—some women and children, but

principally men as he could see—either walking or standing

about and talking or idling in the chairs, side by side or

alone. And in heavily draped and richly furnished alcoves

where were writing-tables, newspaper files, a telegraph

office, a haberdasher’s shop, and a florist’s stand, were

other groups. There was a convention of dentists in the city,

not a few of whom, with their wives and children, were

gathered here; but to Clyde, who was not aware of this nor

of the methods and meanings of conventions, this was the

ordinary, everyday appearance of this hotel.

He gazed about in awe and amazement, then remembering

the name of Squires, he began to look for him in his office

“under the stairs.” To his right was a grand double-winged

black-and-white staircase which swung in two separate

flights and with wide, generous curves from the main floor

to the one above. And between these great flights was

evidently the office of the hotel, for there were many clerks

there. But behind the nearest flight, and close to the wall

through which he had come, was a tall desk, at which stood

a young man of about his own age in a maroon uniform

bright with many brass buttons. And on his head was a

small, round, pill-box cap, which was cocked jauntily over

one ear. He was busy making entries with a lead pencil in a

book which lay open before him. Various other boys about

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his own age, and uniformed as he was, were seated upon a

long bench near him, or were to be seen darting here and

there, sometimes, returning to this one with a slip of paper

or a key or note of some kind, and then seating themselves

upon the bench to await another call apparently, which

seemed to come swiftly enough. A telephone upon the

small desk at which stood the uniformed youth was almost

constantly buzzing, and after ascertaining what was

wanted, this youth struck a small bell before him, or called

“front,” to which the first boy on the bench, responded.

Once called, they went hurrying up one or the other stairs or

toward one of the several entrances or elevators, and

almost invariably were to be seen escorting individuals

whose bags and suitcases and overcoats and golf sticks

they carried. There were others who disappeared and

returned, carrying drinks on trays or some package or

other, which they were taking to one of the rooms above.

Plainly this was the work that he should be called upon to