Descending to his dinner, in answer to a bell more suitable for a fire-alarm than for announcing such an ordinary occurrence as meals, he was introduced to the four young men who were all the boarders the summer season had left in the house. Two were retail dry-goods clerks, another filled some function in a butter and cheese store, and the fourth was the ticket-seller at one of the middle-grade theatres. They all looked at Peter's clothes before looking at his face, and though the greetings were civil enough, Peter's ready-made travelling suit, bought in his native town, and his quiet cravat, as well as his lack of jewelry, were proof positive to them that he did not merit any great consideration. It was very evident that the ticket-seller, not merely from his natural self-assertion but even more because of his enviable acquaintance with certain actresses and his occasional privileges in the way of free passes, was the acknowledged autocrat of the table. Under his guidance the conversation quickly turned to theatrical and "show" talk. Much of it was vulgar, and all of it was dull. It was made the worse by the fact that they all tried to show, off a little before the newcomer, to prove their superiority and extreme knowingness to him. To make Peter the more conscious of this, they asked him various questions.
"Do you like—?" a popular soubrette of the day.
"What, never seen her? Where on earth have you been living?"
"Oh? Well, she's got too good legs to waste herself on such a little place."
They would like to have asked him questions about himself, but feared to seem to lower themselves from their fancied superiority, by showing interest in Peter. One indeed did ask him what business he was in.
"I haven't got to work yet," answered Peter
"Looking for a place" was the mental comment of all, for they could not conceive of any one entitled to practise law not airing his advantage. So they went on patronizing Peter, and glorifying themselves. When time had developed the facts that he was a lawyer, a college graduate, and a man who seemed to have plenty of money (from the standpoint of dry-goods clerks) their respect for him considerably increased. He could not, however, overcome his instinctive dislike to them. After the manly high-minded, cultivated Harvard classmates, every moment of their society was only endurable, and he neither went to their rooms nor asked them to his. Peter had nothing of the snob in him, but he found reading or writing, or a tramp about the city, much the pleasanter way of passing his evenings.
The morning after this first day in New York, Peter called on his friend, the civil engineer, to consult him about an office; for Watts had been rather hazy in regard to where he might best locate that. Mr. Converse shook his head when Peter outlined his plan.
"Do you know any New York people," he asked, "who will be likely to give you cases?"
"No," said Peter.
"Then it's absolutely foolish of you to begin that way," said Mr. Converse. "Get into a lawyer's office, and make friends first before you think of starting by yourself. You'll otherwise never get a client."
Peter shook his head. "I've thought it out," he added, as if that settled it.
Mr. Converse looked at him, and, really liking the fellow, was about to explain the real facts to him, when a client came in. So he only said, "If that's so, go ahead. Locate on Broadway, anywhere between the Battery and Canal Street." Later in the day, when he had time, he shook his head, and said, "Poor devil! Like all the rest."
Anywhere between the Battery and Canal Street represented a fairly large range of territory, but Peter went at the matter directly, and for the next three days passed his time climbing stairs, and inspecting rooms and dark cells. At the end of that time he took a moderate-sized office, far back in a building near Worth Street. Another day saw it fitted with a desk, two chairs (for Peter as yet dreamed only of single clients) and a shelf containing the few law books that were the monuments of his Harvard law course, and his summer reading. On the following Monday, when Peter faced his office door he felt a glow of satisfaction at seeing in very black letters on the very newly scrubbed glass the sign of:
PETER STIRLING
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW.
He had come to his office early, not merely because at his boarding place they breakfasted betimes, but because he believed that early hours were one way of winning success. He was a little puzzled what to do with himself. He sat down at his desk and thrummed it for a minute. Then he rose, and spread his books more along the shelf, so as to leave little spaces between them, thinking that he could make them look more imposing thereby. After that he took down a book—somebody "On Torts,"—and dug into it. In the Harvard course, he had had two hours a week of this book, but Peter worked over it for nearly three hours. Then he took paper, and in a very clear, beautifully neat hand, made an abstract of what he had read. Then he compared his abstract with the book. Returning the book to the shelf, very much pleased with the accuracy of his memory, he looked at his watch. It was but half-past eleven. Peter sat down at his desk. "Would all the days go like this?" he asked himself. He had got through the first week by his room and office-seeking and furnishing. But now? He could not read law for more than four hours a day, and get anything from it. What was to be done with the rest of the time? What could he do to keep himself from thinking of—from thinking? He looked out of his one window, over the dreary stretch of roofs and the drearier light shafts spoken of flatteringly as yards. He compressed his lips, and resorted once more to his book. But he found his mind wandering, and realized that he had done all he was equal to on a hot July morning. Again he looked out over the roofs. Then he rose and stood in the middle at his room, thinking. He looked at his watch again, to make sure that he was right. Then he opened his door and glanced about the hall. It was one blank, except for the doors. He went down the two flights of stairs to the street. Even that had the deserted look of summer. He turned and went back to his room. Sitting down once more at his desk, and opening somebody "On Torts" again, he took up his pen and began to copy the pages literally. He wrote steadily for a time, then with pauses. Finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and became straggly. Then he ceased to write. The words blurred, the paper faded from view, and all Peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes. He laid his head down on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed.
There is no more terrible ordeal of courage than passive waiting. Most of us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, for years, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future! So it was in Peter's case. It was waiting—waiting—for what? If clients came, if fame came, if every form of success came—for what?
There is nothing in loneliness to equal the loneliness of a big city. About him, so crowded and compressed together as to risk life and health, were a million people. Yet not a soul of that million knew that Peter sat at his desk, with his head on his blotter, immovable, from noon one day till daylight of the next.
CHAPTER IX.
HAPPINESS BY PROXY.
The window of Peter's office faced east, and the rays of the morning sun shining dazzlingly in his eyes forced him back to a consciousness of things mundane. He rose, and went downstairs, to find the night watch-man just opening the building. Fortunately he had already met the man, so that he was not suspected as an intruder; and giving him a pleasant "good-morning," Peter passed into the street. It was a good morning indeed,