Dennis folded the letter most carefully and mailed it—for he was now doing the least thing with the utmost precision—with the air of one who meant to find out the right thing to do, and then to do it to a hair-breadth. Nothing should go wrong that day. So at an early hour he again sallied forth.
Not far from the hotel there was a new grocery store about to be opened by two young men, formerly clerks, but now setting up for themselves. They stood at the door receiving a cartload of goods as Dennis approached. He had made up his mind to ask at every opportunity, and to take the first thing that promised fairly; he would also be very polite. Touching his hat to the young men—a little act pleasing to them in their newly acquired dignity as heads of a firm which as yet had no subordinates—Dennis asked if they would need any assistance. Graciously replying to his salutations, they answered, yes; they wanted a young man.
Dennis explained that he was from the country, and showed the ministerial letter. The young grocers looked wise over it, seemed pleased, said they wanted a young fellow from the country, that was not up to city tricks. Chicago was a hard place on young men—spoiled most of them. Glad he was a member of the church. They were not, but believed a man must be mighty good to be one. As the young man they hired must sleep in the store, they wanted one they could trust, and would prefer a church member.
The salary they offered was not large, but pretty fair in view of his having so much to learn, and it was intimated, that if business was good, and he suited, it would be increased. The point uppermost in their minds was to find someone with whom they could trust their store and goods, and this young man from the country, with a letter from a minister, seemed a godsend.
They engaged him, but just as he was starting, with heart swelling with self-satisfaction and joy, one of the firm asked, carelessly, “Where are you staying?’ ”
“At Gavin’s Hotel.”
The man turned sharply, and looked most suspiciously at him, and then at his partner, who gave a low whistle of surprise, and also eyed the young man for a moment askance. Then the men stepped aside, and there was a brief whispered consultation. Dennis’s heart sank within him. He saw that something was wrong, but what, he had not the least idea. The elder member of the embryo firm now stepped up and said, decidedly, “Good morning, young man; we shall not need your services.”
“What do you mean?” cried Dennis, in a voice of mingled dismay and indignation.
The man’s face was growing red with anger, but he said, coldly, “You had better move on. We understand.”
“But I don’t understand, your course toward me is most unjust.”
“Look here, young man, we are too old birds to be caught by any such light chaff as you have about you. You are a pretty church member, you are! You are a smart one, you are; nice boy, just from the country; suppose you do not know that Gavin’s Hotel is the worst gambling hole in the city, and every other man that goes there a known thief. Come, you had better move on if you do not want to get into trouble. You will make nothing here.”
“But I tell you, gentlemen—” cried Dennis, eagerly.
“You may tell what you please. We tell you that we would not believe anyone from that den under oath. Now you leave!”
The last words were loud and threatening. The attention of passersby was drawn toward them, and Dennis saw that further words were useless. In the minds of shrewd but narrow business men, not over-honest themselves, more acquainted with the trickery of the world than with its virtues, suspicion against anyone is fatal, and most assuredly so against a stranger with appearances unfavorable.
With heart well-nigh bursting with anger, disappointment, and shame, Dennis hastened away. He had been regarded as a thief, or at best a blackleg, seeking the position for some sinister purpose. This was the opening scene of the day on which he had determined that no mistakes should be made, and here at the outset he had allowed himself to be identified with a place of notorious ill-repute.
Reaching the hotel, he rushed upstairs, got his trunk, and then turned fiercely on the red-nosed bartender—“Why did you not tell me the character of this place?”
“What kind of a place is it?” asked that functionary, coolly, arms akimbo.
“You know well enough. You knew I was not one of your sort.”
“You don’t mean to say that this is a bad place, do you?” said the barkeeper, in mock solemnity.
“Yes, the worst in Chicago. There is your money.”
“Hold on here, my small chicken; there is some money, but not enough by a jugful. I want five dollars out of you before you take that trunk off.”
“Why, this is sheer robbery,” exclaimed Dennis.
“Oh, no; just keeping up the reputation of the house. You say it is the worst in Chicago: must try and keep up our reputation.”
“Little fear of that; I will not pay it;” and Dennis started for his trunk.
“Here, let that trunk alone; and if yer don’t give me that five dollars cussed quick, I’ll put a head on yer;” and he of the red nose put his hands on the bar in readiness to spring over.
“I say, young
