An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

do, assuming that he would be so fortunate as to connect

himself with such an institution as this.

And it was all so brisk and enlivening that he wished that he

might be so fortunate as to secure a position here. But

would he be? And where was Mr. Squires? He approached

the youth at the small desk: “Do you know where I will find

Mr. Squires?” he asked.

“Here he comes now,” replied the youth, looking up and

examining Clyde with keen, gray eyes.

Clyde gazed in the direction indicated, and saw

approaching a brisk and dapper and decidedly

sophisticated-looking person of perhaps twenty-nine or

thirty years of age. He was so very slender, keen, hatchet-

faced and well-dressed that Clyde was not only impressed

but overawed at once—a very shrewd and cunning-looking

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51

person. His nose was so long and thin, his eyes so sharp,

his lips thin, and chin pointed.

“Did you see that tall, gray-haired man with the Scotch plaid

shawl who went through here just now?” he paused to say

to his assistant at the desk. The assistant nodded. “Well,

they tell me that’s the Earl of Landreil. He just came in this

morning with fourteen trunks and four servants. Can you

beat it! He’s somebody in Scotland. That isn’t the name he

travels under, though, I hear. He’s registered as Mr. Blunt.

Can you beat that English stuff? They can certainly lay on

the class, eh?”

“You said it!” replied his assistant deferentially.

He turned for the first time, glimpsing Clyde, but paying no

attention to him. His assistant came to Clyde’s aid.

“That young fella there is waiting to see you,” he explained.

“You want to see me?” queried the captain of the bellhops,

turning to Clyde, and observing his none-too-good clothes,

at the same time making a comprehensive study of him.

“The gentleman in the drug store,” began Clyde, who did

not quite like the looks of the man before him, but was

determined to present himself as agreeably as possible,

“was saying—that is, he said that I might ask you if there

was any chance here for me as a bell-boy. I’m working now

at Klinkle’s drug store at 7th and Brooklyn, as a helper, but

I’d like to get out of that and he said you might—that is—he

thought you had a place open now.” Clyde was so flustered

and disturbed by the cool, examining eyes of the man

before him that he could scarcely get his breath properly,

and swallowed hard.

For the first time in his life, it occurred to him that if he

wanted to get on he ought to insinuate himself into the

good graces of people—do or say something that would

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make them like him. So now he contrived an eager,

ingratiating smile, which he bestowed on Mr. Squires, and

added: “If you’d like to give me a chance, I’d try very hard

and I’d be very willing.”

The man before him merely looked at him coldly, but being

the soul of craft and self-acquisitiveness in a petty way, and

rather liking anybody who had the skill and the will to be

diplomatic, he now put aside an impulse to shake his head

negatively, and observed: “But you haven’t had any training

in this work.”

“No, sir, but couldn’t I pick it up pretty quick if I tried hard?”

“Well, let me see,” observed the head of the bell-hops,

scratching his head dubiously. “I haven’t any time to talk to

you now. Come around Monday afternoon. I’ll see you

then.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Clyde, left alone in this fashion, and not knowing just what it

meant, stared, wondering. Was it really true that he had

been invited to come back on Monday? Could it be possible

that——He turned and hurried out, thrilling from head to

toe. The idea! He had asked this man for a place in the

very finest hotel in Kansas City and he had asked him to

come back and see him on Monday. Gee! what would that

mean? Could it be possible that he would be admitted to

such a grand world as this—and that so speedily? Could it

really be?

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Chapter 5

THE imaginative flights of Clyde in connection with all this—

his dreams of what it might mean for him to be connected

with so glorious an institution—can only be suggested. For

his ideas of luxury were in the main so extreme and

mistaken and gauche—mere wanderings of a repressed

and unsatisfied fancy, which as yet had had nothing but

imaginings to feed it.

He went back to his old duties at the drug-store—to his

home after hours in order to eat and sleep—but now for the

balance of this Friday and Saturday and Sunday and

Monday until late in the day, he walked on air, really. His

mind was not on what he was doing, and several times his

superior at the drugstore had to remind him to “wake-up.”

And after hours, instead of going directly home, he walked

north to the corner of 14th and Baltimore, where stood this

great hotel, and looked at it. There, at midnight even,

before each of the three principal entrances—one facing

each of three streets—was a doorman in a long maroon

coat with many buttons and a high-rimmed and long-

visored maroon cap. And inside, behind looped and fluted

French silk curtains, were the still blazing lights, the a la

carte dining-room and the American grill in the basement

near one corner still open. And about them were many taxis

and cars. And there was music always—from somewhere.

After surveying it all this Friday night and again on Saturday

and Sunday morning, he returned on Monday afternoon at

the suggestion of Mr. Squires and was greeted by that

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individual rather crustily, for by then he had all but forgotten

him. But seeing that at the moment he was actually in need

of help, and being satisfied that Clyde might be of service,

he led him into his small office under the stair, where, with a

very superior manner and much actual indifference, he

proceeded to question him as to his parentage, where he

lived, at what he had worked before and where, what his

father did for a living—a poser that for Clyde, for he was

proud and so ashamed to admit that his parents conducted

a mission and preached on the streets. Instead he replied

(which was true at times) that his father canvassed for a

washing machine and wringer company—and on Sundays

preached—a religious revelation, which was not at all

displeasing to this master of boys who were inclined to be

anything but home-loving and conservative. Could he bring

a reference from where he now was? He could.

Mr. Squires proceeded to explain that this hotel was very

strict. Too many boys, on account of the scenes and the

show here, the contact made with undue luxury to which

they were not accustomed—though these were not the

words used by Mr. Squires—were inclined to lose their

heads and go wrong. He was constantly being forced to

discharge boys who, because they made a little extra

money, didn’t know how to conduct themselves. He must

have boys who were willing, civil, prompt, courteous to

everybody. They must be clean and neat about their

persons and clothes and show up promptly—on the dot—

and in good condition for the work every day. And any boy

who got to thinking that because he made a little money he

could flirt with anybody or talk back, or go off on parties at

night, and then not show up on time or too tired to be quick

and bright, needn’t think that he would be here long. He

would be fired, and that promptly. He would not tolerate any

nonsense. That must be understood now, once and for all.

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Clyde nodded assent often and interpolated a few eager

“yes, sirs” and “no, sirs,” and assured him at the last that it

was the furtherest thing from his thoughts and

temperament to dream of any such high crimes and

misdemeanors as he had outlined. Mr. Squires then

proceeded to explain that this hotel only paid fifteen dollars

a month and board—at the servant’s table in the basement

—to any bell-boy at any time. But, and this information

came as a most amazing revelation to Clyde, every guest

for whom any of these boys did anything—carried a beg or

delivered a pitcher of water or did anything—gave him a tip,

and often quite a liberal one—a dime, fifteen cents, a

quarter, sometimes more. And these tips, as Mr. Squires

explained, taken all together, averaged from four to six

dollars a day—not less and sometimes more—most

amazing pay, as Clyde now realized. His heart gave an

enormous bound and was near to suffocating him at the