A Man and His Money | Page 5

a phalanx of
machine-made pies? He would look them (figuratively) in the eye.
Having, as it were, fairly stared out of countenance the bland pies and
beamed with stern contempt upon the "droopy," Preraphaelite celery,
he went, better satisfied, on his way. It is these little victories that count;
at that moment Mr. Heatherbloom marched on like a knight of old for
steadfastness of purpose. His lips veiled a covert smile, as if behind the
hard mask of life he saw something a little odd and whimsical,
appealing to some secret sense of humor that even hunger could not
wholly annihilate. The lock of hair seemed to droop rather pathetically
at that moment; his sensitive features were slightly pinched; his face
was pale. It would probably be paler before the day was over; n'importe!
The future had to be met--for better, or worse. Multitudes passed this
way and that; an elevated went crashing by; devastating influences
seemed to surround him. His slender form stiffened.
When next he stopped it was to linger, not in front of an eating
establishment, but before a bulletin-board upon which was pasted a
page of newspaper "want ads" for "trained" men, in all walks of life.
"Trained" men? Hateful word! How often had he encountered it! Ah,
here was one advertisement without the "trained"; he devoured it
eagerly. The item, like an oasis in the desert of his general incapacity
and uselessness, exercised an odd fascination for him in spite of the
absolute impossibility of his professing to possess a fractional part of
those moral attributes demanded by the fair advertiser. She--a Miss Van

Rolsen--was seeking a paragon, not a person. Nevertheless, he resolved
to assail the apparently unassailable, and repaired to a certain
ultrafashionable neighborhood of the town.
Before a brownstone front that bore the number he sought, he paused a
moment, drew a deep breath and started to walk up the front steps. But
with a short laugh he came suddenly to a halt half-way up; looked over
the stone balustrade down at the other entrance below--the
tradesmen's--the butchers', the bakers', the candlestick makers'--and,
yes, the servants'--their way in!--his?
He went down the steps and walked on and away as a matter of course,
but once more stopped. He had done a good deal of going this way and
that, and then stopping, during the last few months. Things had to be
worked out, and sometimes his brain didn't seem to move very quickly.
To be worked out! He now surveyed the butchers' and the bakers' (and
yes, the servants') entrance with casual or philosophic interest from the
vantage point of the other side of the street. It wasn't different from any
other of the entrances of the kind but it held his gaze. Then he walked
across the street again and went in--or down. It didn't really seem now
such a bad kind of entrance when you came to investigate it, in a high
impersonal way; not half so bad as the subway, and people didn't mind
that.
Still Mr. Heatherbloom experienced a peculiar thrill when he put up his
thumb, pressed a button, and wondered what next would happen. Who
answered doors down here,--the maid--the cook--the laundress? He felt
himself to be very indistinct and vague standing there in the shadow,
and tried to assume a nonchalant bearing. He wondered just what
bearing was proper under the circumstances; he cherished indistinct
recollections of having heard or read that the butcher's boy is usually
favored with a broadly defying and independent visage; that he comes
in whistling and goes forth swaggering. A cat-meat man he had once
looked upon from the upper lodge of front steps somewhere in the dim
long ago, had possessed a melancholy manner and countenance.
How should he comport himself; what should he say--when the

inevitable happened; when the time came to say something? How lead
the conversation by natural and easy stages to the purport of his visit?
He rehearsed a few sentences, then straightway forgot them. Why did
they keep him waiting so long? Did they always keep people as long as
that--down here? He put his thumb again--
"Well, what do you want?" The door had opened and a buxom female,
arms akimbo, regarded him. Mr. Heatherbloom repaid her gaze with
interest; it was the cook, then, who acted as door tender of these
regions subterranean. He feared by her expression that he had
interrupted her in the preparation of some esculent delicacy, and with
the fear was born a parenthetical inquiry; he wondered what that
delicacy might be? But forbearing to inquire he stated his business.
"You'll be the thirteenth that's been 'turned down' to-day for that job!"
observed cook blandly. With which cheering assurance she consigned
him to some one else--a maid with a tipped-up