That Printer of Udells | Page 5

he said to himself, his mind going
back to the companion of his early struggle--"Dear old Smoke." Then
as the half-starved creature came timidly to his side and looked up at
him with pleading eyes, he remembered his share of the breakfast, still
untouched, in his pocket. "You look like an old friend of mine," he
continued, as he stooped to pat the bony head, "a friend who is never
hungry now--, but you're hungry aren't you?" A low whine answered
him. "Yes, you're hungry all right." And the next moment a wagging
tail was eloquently giving thanks for the rest of the crackers and cheese.
The factories and mills of the city gave forth their early greeting, while
the sun tried in vain to drive away the chilly mist. Men with dinner
buckets on their arms went hurrying along at call of the whistles,
shop-keepers were sweeping, dusting and arranging their goods, a
street-car full of miners passed, with clanging gong; and the fire
department horses, out for their morning exercise, clattered down the
street. Amid the busy scene walked Dick, without work, without money,
without friends, but with a new purpose in his heart that was more than
meat or drink. A new feeling of freedom and power made him lift his
head and move with a firm and steady step.

All that morning he sought for employment, inquiring at the stores and
shops, but receiving little or no encouragement. Toward noon, while
waiting for an opportunity to interview the proprietor of a store, he
picked up a daily paper that was lying on the counter, and turning to the
"want" column, read an advertisement for a man to do general work
about the barn and yard. When he had received the usual answer to his
request for work, he went at once to the address given in the paper.
"Is Mr. Goodrich in?" he asked of the young man who came forward
with a look of inquiry on his face.
"What do you want?" was the curt reply.
"I want to see Mr. Goodrich," came the answer in tones even sharper,
and the young man conducted him to the door of the office.
"Well," said a portly middle-aged gentleman, when he had finished
dictating a letter to the young lady seated at the typewriter, "What do
you want?"
"I came in answer to your ad in this morning's Whistler," answered
Dick.
"Umph--Where did you work last?"
"At Kansas City. I'm a printer by trade, but willing to do anything until
I get a start."
"Why aren't you working at your trade?"
"I was thrown out by the strike and have been unable to find anything
since."
A look of anger and scorn swept over the merchant's face. "So you're
one of that lot, are you? Why don't you fellows learn to take what you
can get? Look there." He pointed to a pile of pamphlets lying on the
table. "Just came in to-day; they cost me fifty per cent more than I ever
paid before, just because you cattle can't be satisfied; and now you

want me to give you a place. If I had my way, I'd give you, and such as
you, work on the rock pile." And he wheeled his chair toward his desk
again.
"But," said Dick, "I'm hungry--I must do something--I'm not a
beggar--I'll earn every cent you pay me."
"I tell you no," shouted the other. "I won't have men about me who look
above their position," and he picked up his pen.
"But, Sir," said Dick again, "what am I to do?"
"I don't care what you do," returned the other. "There is a stone-yard
here for such as you."
"Sir," answered Dick, standing very straight, his face as pale as death.
"Sir, you will yet learn that it does matter very much what such fellows
as I do, and some day you will be glad to apologize for your words this
morning. I am no more worthy to work on the rock pile than yourself.
As a man, I am every bit your equal, and will live to prove it. Good
morning, Sir." And he marched out of the office like a soldier on
parade, leaving the young lady at the typewriter motionless with
amazement, and her employer dumb with rage.
What induced him to utter such words Dick could not say; he only
knew that they were true, and they seemed somehow to be forced from
him; though in spite of his just anger he laughed at the ridiculousness
of the situation before he was fairly away from the building.
The factory whistles blew for dinner, but there was no dinner for Dick;
they blew again for work at one o'clock, but still there was nothing for
Dick to do.