LITMIR.BIZ

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the floors were divided into numerous sleeping-rooms barely large enough to accommodate a bed, washstand and one chair—a sordid ensemble, unrelieved by any other wall decoration than the inevitable announcement: “This way to the fire escape.”

      By a singular coincidence which would have aroused a lively emotion in the moralist, a Bible occupied a small shelf directly under the instructions quoted above.

      Dennis, however, was too weary to recognize the grim association, and shortly after his arrival retired for the night to recuperate his energies for the uncertainties of the morrow.

      Awakening at dawn with a sincere hope that his dreams of a succession of disasters were not prophetic, and, despite the appeals of the glitter and the labels in the bar, breakfasting with his customary abstemiousness, Dennis issued from The Stag with a determination to make the effort of his life to secure employment.

      He had no definite plans other than a profound determination to resist the invitations of Baxter Street, a thoroughfare congested from end to end with innumerable shops devoted to the species of merchandizing from which he had so recently escaped.

      Here his talents would have procured for him ready recognition, a condition which deepened his determination to avoid all possible contact with these solicitous sons of Shem.

      Beyond a singular desire to enter a large publishing house, Dennis had no idea as to the direction of his efforts.

      Aside from the fact that books held an unaccountable fascination for him, he could not explain this predilection, for their influence over him was in the aggregate.

      He loved to wander, with aimless preoccupation, among closely-packed shelves, and in pursuance of this indirection was familiar with the interior of every library in the city of Philadelphia.

      He appeared to have too much respect for the books to touch them, and was sufficiently in awe of their contents not to attempt to read them.

      He was impressed by the volume of things, and had, unsuspected by himself, the capacity of the bibliophile to detect and enjoy the subtle aroma which emanates from leaves and binding.

      In harmony, therefore, with the resolute quality which had secured to him what success he had enjoyed in his abandoned business, Dennis decided to exhaust the pleasing possibilities presented by this elevated industry before applying elsewhere.

      The éclat of possible authorship did not influence him, despite the encouragement afforded him in the surprising efforts of his imagination displayed in achievements such as the following, with which he embellished the front of his father’s establishment:

      This Suit

       was

       $50

       and cheap at that

       I’ll let it go for

       $20

      and so on indefinitely.

      Urged, then, by the advantages which lubricate the lines of least resistance, and stimulated by that clarion phrase in his unfailing campaign document, his copy of Beaconsfield: “I have begun many things many times and have finally succeeded,” Dennis presented himself, about ten o’clock, at one of the well-known publishing houses.

      With all the alarm which affects the fair débutante at a court presentation, he beheld the confusing labyrinth of counters, department aisles and shelves, which combine in such a depressing suggestion of intellectual plethora and transient futility in this famous edifice.

      Advised by his sensations, Dennis was quite ready to assure himself that he had entered at the wrong portal, and, returning to the street, he discovered that the building concluded upon a rearway congested with a disorderly array of drays, cases and porters.

      Encouraged by the assurance of these more familiar surroundings, Dennis cast an anxious glance about him to discover one more in authority than the others.

      His quest was given direction by a familiar accent.

      “Wake up, ye lazy divils! It’s dhramin’ ye are this marnin’.”

      Guided by the sound, Dennis beheld a naturally cheerful Irishman occupied with the double task of assuming an austere demeanor, and quickening, with brisk orders, the movements of the porters under his direction.

      His present difficulties mastered, this vivacious master of ceremonies turned to look, with an inquiring glance, upon Dennis, who had presented himself to the attention of the former with the unmistakable appeal of the candidate in his demeanor.

      “I want a job,” said Dennis simply.

      “Phwat?” inquired the foreman sharply, staring at the mosaic of physiognomy and accent embodied in Dennis.

      “I want a job,” repeated Dennis. “I nade wurk.”

      There was no mistaking the peculiar burr in the utterance of the last two words, but the foreman continued to regard the speaker with suspicious amazement.

      “Phwat are ye, annyway?” he said with guarded brusqueness.

      “A poor man, sir; I nade wurk.”

      “Oi don’t mane that,” with less severity at this frank acknowledgment; “but where do yez hail from—Limerick or Jerusalem?”

      At this pointed question, which promptly reminded Dennis of the singular contradiction he presented, he replied, with a genuine Celtic adroitness that had an immediate effect upon his hearer:

      “Nayther; I got off at the midway junction.”

      “Ha, ha!” laughed the foreman, as he appreciated this clever explanation of the singular compromise presented by Dennis. “Shure, that’s not bad. By the mug ye wear, I wud advise ye to go to Baxther Street, but by the sound av ye, Oi rickommind th’ Broadway squad. Wurrk, is it? Why don’t ye presint that face at th’ front? I hear they’re shy on editors.”

      “Shure!” said Dennis, who believed that he was progressing; “but the only things I iver wrote were store signs.”

      “Ah, ha!” replied the foreman, “so it’s handy with th’ brush ye are.”

      “Yes,” answered Dennis.

      “Wait a bit,” said the foreman, and pointing to a marking-outfit he directed Dennis to display his name and address upon a smooth pine board which he provided for that purpose:

      Dennis Muldoon,

       The Stag Hotel,

       Vesey St.,

       N.Y.

      “Ah, ha!” cried the foreman as he contrasted the name with the incongruous face of the young man before him, “ye don’t have to play it on a flute, annyway; there’s nothin’ Sheeny about that.” Then, directing his attention to the character of the work itself, he added: “That’s not bad at all, at all. See here,” he said abruptly, as he picked up the board which Dennis had decorated and fastened it to the warehouse wall with a nail, “Oi’ll kape that for riferince. Oh, Oi mane it,” he said with gruff assurance, as he noted the disappointment which shadowed the expressive face before him; “an’ mebbe ye won’t have to wait so long, nayther.”

      “I hope not,” said Dennis frankly.

      “Well, ye see,” said the foreman, “the prisint incoombent has been mixin’ too much red wid his paint, an’ it don’t wurrk.”

      “You mean he drinks?” asked Dennis with humorous inquiry.

      “Oi do,” replied the foreman; “an’ now that we have inthroduced th’ subject, excuse a personal quistion: Do ye wet yure whistle in business hours?”

      “No,” answered Dennis promptly, “nor out of them. Father attended to that part of the business.”

      “Well,” replied the foreman, “Oi can’t talk longer wid ye this marnin’. Come ’round

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