An American Tragedy Read online

Clyde shook his head negatively.

  “I should say I didn’t,” he exclaimed.

  “Well, where did you go then?” he asked.

  Clyde told him. And after he had set forth a full picture of his own wayfarings, Ratterer returned with: “Gee, you didn’t know that that little Briggs girl left with a guy from out there for New York right after that, did you? Some fellow who worked in a cigar store, so Louise told me. She saw her afterwards just before she left with a new fur coat and all.” (Clyde winced sadly.) “Gee, but you were a sucker to fool around with her. She didn’t care for you or nobody. But you was pretty much gone on her, I guess, eh?” And he grinned at Clyde amusedly, and chucked him under the arm, in his old teasing way.

  But in regard to himself, he proceeded to unfold a tale of only modest adventure, which was very different from the one Clyde had narrated, a tale which had less of nerves and worry and more of a sturdy courage and faith in his own luck and possibilities. And finally he had “caught on” to this, because, as he phrased it, “you can always get something in Chi.”

  And here he had been ever since—“very quiet, of course,” but no one had ever said a word to him.

  And forthwith, he began to explain that just at present there wasn’t anything in the Union League, but that he would talk to Mr. Haley who was superintendent of the club—and that if Clyde wanted to, and Mr. Haley knew of anything, he would try and find out if there was an opening anywhere, or likely to be, and if so, Clyde could slip into it.

  “But can that worry stuff,” he said to Clyde toward the end of the evening. “It don’t get you nothing.”

  And then only two days after this most encouraging conversation, and while Clyde was still debating whether he would resign his job, resume his true name and canvass the various hotels in search of work, a note came to his room, brought by one of the bell-boys of the Union League which read: “See Mr. Lightall at the Great Northern before noon to-morrow. There’s a vacancy over there. It ain’t the very best, but it’ll get you something better later.”

  And accordingly Clyde, after telephoning his department manager that he was ill and would not be able to work that day, made his way to this hotel in his very best clothes. And on the strength of what references he could give, was allowed to go to work; and much to his relief under his own name. Also, to his gratification, his salary was fixed at twenty dollars a month, meals included. But the tips, as he now learned, aggregated not more than ten a week—yet that, counting meals was far more than he was now getting as he comforted himself; and so much easier work, even if it did take him back into the old line, where he still feared to be seen and arrested.

  It was not so very long after this—not more than three months—before a vacancy occurred in the Union League staff. Ratterer, having some time before established himself as day assistant to the club staff captain, and being on good terms with him, was able to say to the latter that he knew exactly the man for the place—Clyde. Griffiths—then employed at the Great Northern. And accordingly, Clyde was sent for, and being carefully coached beforehand by Ratterer as to how to approach his new superior, and what to say, he was given the place.

  And here, very different from the Great Northern and superior from a social and material point of view, as Clyde saw it, to even the Green-Davidson, he was able once more to view at close range a type of life that most affected, unfortunately, his bump of position and distinction. For to this club from day to day came or went such a company of seemingly mentally and socially worldly elect as he had never seen anywhere before, the self-integrated and self-centered from not only all of the states of his native land but from all countries and continents. American politicians from the north, south, east, west—the principal politicians and bosses, or alleged statesmen of their particular regions—surgeons, scientists, arrived physicians, generals, literary and social figures, not only from America but from the world over.

  Here also, a fact which impressed and even startled his sense of curiosity and awe, even—there was no faintest trace of that sex element which had characterized most of the phases of life to be seen in the Green-Davidson, and more recently the Great Northern. In fact, in so far as he could remember, had seemed to run through and motivate nearly, if not quite all of the phases of life that he had thus far contacted. But here was no sex—no trace of it. No women were admitted to this club. These various distinguished individuals came and went, singly as a rule, and with the noiseless vigor and reserve that characterizes the ultra successful. They often ate alone, conferred in pairs and groups, noiselessly—read their papers or books, or went here and there in swiftly driven automobiles—but for the most part seemed to be unaware of, or at least unaffected by, that element of passion, which, to his immature mind up to this time, had seemed to propel and disarrange so many things in those lesser worlds with which up to now he had been identified.

  Probably one could not attain to or retain one’s place in so remarkable a world as this unless one were indifferent to sex, a disgraceful passion, of course. And hence in the presence or under the eyes of such people one had to act and seem as though such thoughts as from time to time swayed one were far from one’s mind.

  After he had worked here a little while, under the influence of this organization and various personalities who came here, he had taken on a most gentlemanly and reserved air. When he was within the precincts of the club itself, he felt himself different from what he really was—more subdued, less romantic, more practical, certain that if he tried now, imitated the soberer people of the world, and those only, that some day he might succeed, if not greatly, at least much better than he had thus far. And who knows? What if he worked very steadily and made only the right sort of contacts and conducted himself with the greatest care here, one of these very remarkable men whom he saw entering or departing from here might take a fancy to him and offer him a connection with something important somewhere, such as he had never had before, and that might lift him into a world such as he had never known.

  For to say the truth, Clyde had a soul that was not destined to grow up. He lacked decidedly that mental clarity and inner directing application that in so many permits them to sort out from the facts and avenues of life the particular thing or things that make for their direct advancement.

  Chapter 4

  HOWEVER, as he now fancied, it was because he lacked an education that he had done so poorly. Because of those various moves from city to city in his early youth, he had never been permitted to collect such a sum of practical training in any field as would permit him, so he thought, to aspire to the great worlds of which these men appeared to be a part. Yet his soul now yearned for this. The people who lived in fine houses, who stopped at great hotels, and had men like Mr. Squires, and the manager of the bell-hops here, to wait on them and arrange for their comfort. And he was still a bell-hop. And close to twenty-one. At times it made him very sad. He wished and wished that he could get into some work where he could rise and be somebody—not always remain a bell-hop, as at times he feared he might.

  About the time that he reached this conclusion in regard to himself and was meditating on some way to improve and safeguard his future, his uncle, Samuel Griffiths, arrived in Chicago. And having connections here which made a card to this club an obvious civility, he came directly to it and for several days was about the place conferring with individuals who came to see him, or hurrying to and fro to meet people and visit concerns whom he deemed it important to see.

  And it was not an hour after he arrived before Ratterer, who had charge of the pegboard at the door by day and who had but a moment before finished posting the name of this uncle on the board, signaled to Clyde, who came over.

  “Didn’t you say you had an uncle or something by the name of Griffiths in the collar business somewhere in New York State?”

  “Sure,” replied Clyde. “Samuel Griffiths. He has a big collar factory in Lycurgus. That’s his ad you see in all the papers and that’s his fire sign over th
ere on Michigan Avenue.”

  “Would you know him if you saw him?”

  “No,” replied Clyde. “I never saw him in all my life.”

  “I’ll bet anything it’s the same fellow,” commented Ratterer, consulting a small registry slip that had been handed him. “Looka here—Samuel Griffiths, Lycurgus, N. Y. That’s probably the same guy, eh?”

  “Surest thing you know,” added Clyde, very much interested and even excited, for this was the identical uncle about whom he had been thinking so long.

  “He just went through here a few minutes ago,” went on Ratterer. “Devoy took his bags up to K. Swell-looking man, too. You better keep your eye open and take a look at him when he comes down again. Maybe it’s your uncle. He’s only medium tall and kinda thin. Wears a small gray mustache and a pearl gray hat. Good-lookin’. I’ll point him out to you. If it is your uncle you better shine up to him. Maybe he’ll do somepin’ for you—give you a collar or two,” he added, laughing.

  Clyde laughed too as though he very much appreciated this joke, although in reality he was flustered. His uncle Samuel! And in this club! Well, then this was his opportunity to introduce himself to his uncle. He had intended writing him before ever he secured this place, but now he was here in this club and might speak to him if he chose.

  But hold! What would his uncle think of him, supposing he chose to introduce himself? For he was a bell-boy again and acting in that capacity in this club. What, for instance, might be his uncle’s attitude toward boys who worked as bellboys, particularly at his—Clyde’s—years. For he was over twenty now, and getting to be pretty old for a bell-boy, that is, if one ever intended to be anything else. A man of his wealth and high position might look on bell-hopping as menial, particularly bell-boys who chanced to be related to him. He might not wish to have anything to do with him—might not even wish him to address him in any way. It was in this state that he remained for fully twenty-four hours after he knew that his uncle had arrived at this club.

  The following afternoon, however, after he had seen him at least half a dozen times and had been able to formulate the most agreeable impressions of him, since his uncle appeared to be so very quick, alert, incisive—so very different from his father in every way, and so rich and respected by every one here—he began to wonder, to fear even at times, whether he was going to let this remarkable opportunity slip. For after all, his uncle did not look to him to be at all unkindly—quite the reverse—very pleasant. And when, at the suggestion of Ratterer, he had gone to his uncle’s room to secure a letter which was to be sent by special messenger, his uncle had scarcely looked at him, but instead had handed him the letter and half a dollar. “See that a boy takes that right away and keep the money for yourself,” he had remarked.

  Clyde’s excitement was so great at the moment that he wondered that his uncle did not guess that he was his nephew. But plainly he did not. And he went away a little crest-fallen.

  Later some half dozen letters for his uncle having been put in the key-box, Ratterer called Clyde’s attention to them. “If you want to run in on him again, here’s your chance. Take those up to him. He’s in his room, I think.” And Clyde, after some hesitation, had finally taken the letters and gone to his uncle’s suite once more.

  His uncle was writing at the time and merely called: “Come!” Then Clyde, entering and smiling rather enigrnatically, observed: “Here’s some mail for you, Mr. Griffiths.”

  “Thank you very much, my son,” replied his uncle and proceeded to finger his vest pocket for change, but Clyde, seizing this opportunity, exclaimed: “Oh, no, I don’t want anything for that.” And then before his uncle could say anything more, although he proceeded to hold out some silver to him, he added: “I believe I’m related to you, Mr. Griffiths. You’re Mr. Samuel Griffiths of the Griffiths Collar Company of Lycurgus, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I have a little something to do with it, I believe. Who are you?” returned his uncle, looking at him sharply.

  “My name’s Clyde Griffiths. My father, Asa Griffiths, is your brother, I believe.”

  At the mention of this particular brother, who, to the knowledge of all the members of this family, was distinctly not a success materially, the face of Samuel Griffiths clouded the least trifle. For the mention of Asa brought rather unpleasingly before him the stocky and decidedly not well-groomed figure of his younger brother, whom he had not seen in so many years. His most recent distinct picture of him was as a young man of about Clyde’s age about his father’s house near Bertwick, Vermont. But how different! Clyde’s father was then short, fat and poorly knit mentally as well as physically—oleaginous and a bit mushy, as it were. His chin was not firm, his eyes a pale watery blue, and his hair frizzled. Whereas this son of his was neat, alert, good-looking and seemingly well-mannered and intelligent, as most bell-hops were inclined to be as he noted. And he liked him.

  However, Samuel Griffiths, who along with his elder brother Allen had inherited the bulk of his father’s moderate property, and this because of Joseph Griffiths’ prejudice against his youngest son, had always felt that perhaps an injustice had been done Asa. For Asa, not having proved very practical or intelligent, his father had first attempted to drive and then later ignore him, and finally had turned him out at about Clyde’s age, and had afterward left the bulk of his property, some thirty thousand dollars, to these two elder brothers, share and share alike—willing Asa but a petty thousand.

  It was this thought in connection with this younger brother that now caused him to stare at Clyde rather curiously. For Clyde, as he could see, was in no way like the younger brother who had been harried from his father’s home so many years before. Rather he was more like his own son, Gilbert, whom, as he now saw he resembled. Also in spite of all of Clyde’s fears he was obviously impressed by the fact that he should have any kind of place in this interesting club. For to Samuel Griffiths, who was more than less confined to the limited activities and environment of Lycurgus, the character and standing of this particular club was to be respected. And those young men who served the guests of such an institution as this, were, in the main, possessed of efficient and unobtrusive manners. Therefore to see Clyde standing before him in his neat gray and black uniform and with the air of one whose social manners at least were excellent, caused him to think favorably of him.

  “You don’t tell me!” he exclaimed interestedly. “So you’re Asa’s son. I do declare! Well, now, this is a surprise. You see I haven’t seen or heard from your father in at least—well, say, twenty-five or six years, anyhow. The last time I did hear from him he was living in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I think, or here. He isn’t here now, I presume.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” replied Clyde, who was glad to be able to say this. “The family live in Denver. I’m here all alone.”

  “Your father and mother are living, I presume.”

  “Yes, sir. They’re both alive.”

  “Still connected with religious work, is he—your father?”

  “Well, yes, sir,” answered Clyde, a little dubiously, for he was still convinced that the form of religious work his father essayed was of all forms the poorest and most inconsequentim socially. “Only the church he has now,” he went on, “has a lodging house connected with it. About forty rooms, I believe. He and my mother run that and the mission too.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  He was so anxious to make a better impression on his uncle than the situation seemed to warrant that he was quite willing to exaggerate a little.

  “Well, I’m glad they’re doing so well,” continued Samuel Griffiths, rather impressed with the trim and vigorous appearance of Clyde. “You like this kind of work, I suppose?”

  “Well, not exactly. No, Mr. Griffiths, I don’t,” replied Clyde quickly, alive at once to the possibilities of this query. “It pays well enough. But I don’t like the way you have to make the money you get here. It isn’t my idea of a salary at all. But I got in this because I didn’t have a chance to
study any particular work or get in with some company where there was a real chance to work up and make something of myself. My mother wanted me to write you once and ask whether there was any chance in your company for me to begin and work up, but I was afraid maybe that you might not like that exactly, and so I never did.”

  He paused, smiling, and yet with an inquiring look in his eye.

  His uncle looked solemnly at him for a moment, pleased by his looks and his general manner of approach in this instance, and then replied: “Well, that is very interesting. You should have written, if you wanted to——” Then, as was his custom in all matters, he cautiously paused. Clyde noted that he was hesitating to encourage him.

  “I don’t suppose there is anything in your company that you would let me do?” he ventured boldly, after a moment.

  Samuel Griffiths merely stared at him thoughtfully. He liked and he did not like this direct request However, Clyde appeared at least a very adaptable person for the purpose. He seemed bright and ambitious—so much like his own son, and he might readily fit into some department as head or assistant under his son, once he had acquired a knowledge of the various manufacturing processes. At any rate he might let him try it. There could be no real harm in that. Besides, there was his younger brother, to whom, perhaps, both he and his older brother Allen owed some form of obligation, if not exactly restitution.

  “Well,” he said, after a moment, “that is something I would have to think over a little. I wouldn’t be able to say, offhand, whether there is or not. We wouldn’t be able to pay you as much as you make here to begin with,” he warned.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” exclaimed Clyde, who was far more fascinated by the thought of connecting himself with his uncle than anything else. “I wouldn’t expect very much until I was able to earn it, of course.”

  “Besides, it might be that you would find that you didn’t like the collar business once you got into it, or we might find we didn’t like you. Not every one is suited to it by a long way.”