THE AMATEUR 
 
 CHARLES G. NORRIS 
 
THE AMATEUR 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES G. NORRIS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 

 
 Copyright, 1916, 
 BY GEOEQE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
TO MY MOTHER 
 
 Whose courage, keen humor, rare wisdom and high ideals 
 
 have always been an inspiration to at 
 
 least one amateur 
 
 513403 
 
PART ONE 
 
PART ONE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AT Buffalo Carey Williams abandoned the luxury of 
 the Pullman sleeping-car for the cheerless com 
 fort of a day coach. The routeing of his passes changed 
 from the Erie to the Lackawanna Railroad at this point 
 and there were no sleepers attached to the train over 
 the latter road. He felt that he could not afford a seat in 
 the chair cars. Two meals in the diner remained to be 
 paid for, provided he gave up lunch again. He wanted 
 to arrive in New York with the seal of the envelope 
 that contained the two hundred dollars unbroken. 
 
 "Ten dollars will take care of the grub and tips and 
 I ll land in New York with your greenbacks untouched," 
 he had declared confidently to Joe before he had left 
 home. 
 
 His mother and Joe Downer had come down to see 
 him off. Beneath the arching glass roof of the great 
 station, he had sauntered up and down between them, 
 his arms hooked in theirs, while late arrivals, who were 
 to be his fellow passengers, had hurried past the barred 
 grating of the gate, carrying grips and overcoats, their 
 tickets in their hands, porters following at their heels 
 with the heavier luggage. 
 
10 THE AMATEUR 
 
 The trad^. that .was : to carry him a thousand miles 
 away, /Jiad ,to. wered jmpre ssiyely beside them. It had 
 appeared-* to ; Csipe^ FikeSaiTie gigantic caterpillar, poten 
 tially terrific, a thing of mystery and alarm. Far out 
 beyond the span of the great roof of the station, glisten 
 ing sombrely in the sun, he had seen the black steaming 
 machine, at the head of the long string of coaches, in 
 whose bowels lay the power that was to whirl him across 
 the intervening mountains and great stretches of prairie. 
 The doors of the baggage cars had stood hungrily open ; 
 men had attacked the great piles of trunks at furious 
 speed; Pullman porters beside their rubber-topped steps 
 at the vestibule entrances to the sleeping cars, had ex 
 amined tickets thrust nervously in their faces ; conductors, 
 brakemen, telegraph messengers and newsboys had 
 passed them running ; there had prevailed a tense, pulsing 
 note of haste and purpose. 
 
 Carey had felt the thrill of it. It had been incongru 
 ous and out of keeping with the bustle about them to 
 idly walk up and down between his mother and Joe. 
 They all had caught the excitement of the departure and 
 talked among themselves at random. 
 
 "I ll start with an even two hundred," Carey had re 
 iterated to Joe. "I ll not touch a penny of it, till I reach 
 New York." 
 
 Joe had nodded slowly in his clumsy fashion. He 
 had accepted Carey s declaration gravely, as he did what 
 ever the boy asserted. 
 
 "But no drinking, Carey," his mother had said anx 
 iously. "You ve promised me, you know. Remember 
 all I ve said, my boy. Tippling and something to steady 
 your nerves ! Oh, Carey, you will remember! Be a 
 good boy always. And you ll write regularly! And if 
 you get into trouble you ll wire, won t you, Carey ?" 
 
THE AMATEUR 11 
 
 "Oh, don t worry about me, Mother! You won t 
 need to bother," he had said with swaggering assurance. 
 "I ll make good. I may find out I can t draw, that I 
 can t make illustrations, but I ll get along. There s al 
 ways a job cleaning the streets. Just wait and see; I ll 
 be sending Joe twenty on account inside of six months !" 
 
 "Aw, you mustn t let that worry you. I don t need it, 
 you know, Carey. Take your time about it ; I don t care 
 if it s a couple of years. And you understand where to 
 turn if you need more !" 
 
 Carey had been aware that as Joe had said this he had 
 been gazing at him with the humble dog-like expression 
 that Carey had found so irritating during the past few 
 months. He had been thinking how glad he was go 
 ing to feel away from them all, how free he would be, 
 when the hurried pace of bustle and preparation about 
 them abruptly increased to a final spurt. There had been 
 a swift moment when he had gripped his mother tightly 
 in his arms and had felt her wet cheek against his, when 
 he had wrung Joe s hand in a grasp that made his fingers 
 tingle, and when he had turned an instant later to wave 
 to them from the vestibule of the Pullman. Then slowly, 
 almost imperceptibly, the great caterpillar had begun to 
 move. 
 
 That was two days ago. In forty-eight hours a subtle 
 change had already begun to take place within him. He 
 felt his point-of-view shifting, shifting. His complete 
 assurance was shaken; no longer was it glad, confident 
 morning with him. He wondered a little that he had 
 been irritated by his mother and by Joe, Joe who was 
 so steadfast, so patient, so devoted. He was too old, he 
 told himself, to be homesick, and if these softened 
 thoughts of his mother and Joe were symptoms of that 
 feeling, he determined not to let himself think about 
 
12 THE AMATEUR 
 
 them. Resolutely he turned to the window of the car 
 and stared out at the revolving landscape. 
 
 It was the thirty-first of May. As the train wound 
 along through the rolling country, Carey could see 
 spring, in the full glory of its maturity, had turned 
 the whole surface of the earth into a patch-work of 
 verdant tones. The last pages of "The Letters of a 
 Self-Made Merchant to his Son" four copies of the 
 book had been parting gifts from well-wishing friends 
 at home no longer held any fascination for the boy. 
 This, that he finally gazed upon, was the East, the land 
 of his hopes and dreams. It was all so different from 
 what he had been used to at home. Most of all it was 
 the greenness of things that drew his admiration. He 
 was accustomed to grass and trees, beautifully kept lawns 
 and orchards, but nothing ever so fresh, so violently 
 green as this colour through the car window. Every 
 characteristic of the country that meant for him "the 
 East" gladdened his heart: the nearness of the cities to 
 each other, the rambling stone walls, the farm houses, 
 even those with roofs made hideous by advertisements, 
 above all, the trees. Never had he seen so many trees 
 so close together. He was always to carry with him the 
 memory of the rolling, billowy, green tree tops below the 
 elevation of the railroad track, that stretched away on 
 either side, a velvety carpet to the horizon s edge. 
 Woods! That was it. There were forests out West, 
 thick masses of underbrush, or what he would have de 
 scribed as timber land. But he realised that he had 
 never before seen real woods. 
 
 A town s name upon a station platform brought sud 
 denly to him the pleasant realisation that the state line 
 had been passed and that the train was speeding through 
 Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania ! That was something like ! 
 
THE AMATEUR 13 
 
 Somehow the thought that at last he was in the Quaker 
 State meant more to him than when he had changed cars 
 in Buffalo that morning. He supposed he was on New 
 York soil then, but one never associated Buffalo and 
 New York. Pennsylvania Penn s Woods! No won 
 der they called it that. 
 
 Carey was not aware that it was Sunday until, toward 
 the middle of the afternoon, the train reached Delaware 
 Water Gap. Then that fact, and that the preceding day 
 had been Decoration Day two holidays in succession 
 was borne in upon him by the crowds of happy, tired 
 people who climbed upon his train and filled it to over 
 flowing. Somehow, with their advent, his elation and 
 high spirits left him. The last pleasant sensation was a 
 glimpse of a stretch of blue water, canoes and tiny sail 
 boats, and a crowd of laughing girls and boys of about 
 his own age, in duck and flannels, who waved farewells 
 to departing friends from the station platform, as the 
 train left the Water Gap behind. 
 
 A baby, with sticky face and hands, leaned from the 
 arms of its fat and unheeding mother, who had installed 
 herself and her many bundles into the seat directly be 
 hind Carey, seized his straw hat and flung it with a 
 gurgling crow into the aisle. Two girls on the other 
 side of the car tittered, and Carey, recovering his hat 
 with as much dignity as he could across the lap of an 
 old gentleman who shared his seat, experienced his first 
 real pang of loneliness and homesickness. 
 
 He was an alien. The holiday-makers about him, hi 
 lariously noisy, were not of the world he knew. They 
 were different, of another character. He edged towards 
 the window and tried to make himself as unobtrusive 
 and inconspicuous as he could. But his interest in the 
 racing country was gone. No longer did it seem so 
 
14 THE AMATEUR 
 
 green, so fresh, so virginal. Clouds out of the east be 
 gan to bank. Soon the sun disappeared. 
 
 About six o clock he scrambled out of his seat and 
 worked his way back through the crowded, swaying day- 
 coaches, towards the diner. He had to wait in the vesti 
 bule for half an hour, as the preference for seats was 
 invariably given to the passengers occupying the chair 
 cars. Eventually the dining-car conductor beckoned him 
 to a vacant place at one of the tables, and he ate his 
 meagre supper of ham and eggs and coffee with an em 
 barrassed sense that his frugality was generally observed. 
 He hesitated between apple pie for himself or a tip for 
 the waiter and finally weakly decided on the latter. For 
 lornly, hungrily, he made his way back to his own car. 
 
 Some two hours later, lugging his heavy suitcase, he 
 followed the black stream of people that hurried along 
 the station platform. Upon leaving the friendly car that 
 had kept him company all day, the sense of his loneliness 
 and depression became complete. No one cast a look 
 at him; not one of those flashing smiles that marked 
 the meeting of friendly eyes through the station grating 
 were for him. Everyone else had some destination eag 
 erly to be sought and reached. It did not matter where 
 he spent the night. If he should be found dead some 
 where, no one not a single person of all these that 
 pressed about him, nor in all that great, mysterious, gi 
 gantic metropolis across the river could tell who Carey 
 Williams was, or would care. 
 
 An electric sign above his head directed him to the 
 Christopher Street ferry. The "baggage delivered" man 
 who had passed through the train, and to whom Carey 
 had surrendered the check for his trunk, had explained 
 in a friendly, interested sort of a way just how the boy 
 was to reach the hotel he mentioned. Carey recalled 
 
THE AMATEUR 15 
 
 with comfort the pleasant smile and nod, and, as if to 
 assure himself again of one fellow-being s well wishes, 
 he drew the slip of paper the man had given him from 
 his pocket and reread for the twentieth time the three 
 lines of scrawled writing: "Christopher St. Ferry 8th 
 Street cross town Church with cross." The last was to 
 identify the hotel, which had some vague connection in 
 Carey s mind with a church of the same name. A friend 
 of his mother had once stopped there and recommended it 
 as "elegant and inexpensive." 
 
 An iron gate in front of him shut up suddenly like a 
 pair of huge lazy-tongs, and the crowd behind him briskly 
 surged forward, carrying him with it. He presently 
 found himself on the front, blunt end of the ferry boat, 
 close to the rail, and there, just beyond a few hundred 
 yards of water, in one great sweep <up and down as 
 far as the darkness would let one see crouching, menac 
 ing, mysterious, enchanting bewilderingly entangled 
 lay New York. 
 
 Carey got the thrill of it. It reached out and gripped 
 him and engulfed him and swept him along with it. 
 In an instant in the twinkling of an eye the marvel 
 lous fascination that drew millions of souls within its 
 compelling force, to make it what it was, added Carey to 
 their number. 
 
 The struggle was there, the bitter combat, the grim 
 fight without quarter. He sensed the daily sacrifice of 
 countless lives, the relentless crushing of men s souls 
 and bodies. A monster it might be but one worth con 
 quering. Now was the time at hand for the great effort ; 
 now was the time for girding up one s loins! He 
 thought of Goliath and David. Did he have a pebble in 
 his bag and the skill to hurl it? 
 
 It had all seemed a fine thing to attempt, back home. 
 
16 THE AMATEUR 
 
 He had held forth at length to Joe and to his mother 
 as to what he should do when he reached New York. 
 But it was different now. He possessed a letter of in 
 troduction to one man in that great city. That and his 
 ability and his constancy were all the weapons he had at 
 hand wherewith to meet the enemy. 
 
 "By God/ he said between his teeth, his hands shut 
 tight upon the boat s rail; Til not be a quitter. They 
 sha n t know if I fail!" 
 
 Presently, on either side of him, the black piles of 
 the slip rose up out of the darkness and the ferry boat, 
 bumping and scraping its sides, nosed its way into its 
 dock. 
 
 The street car was crowded. Carey struggled on to 
 the back platform and set down his bulky suitcase as 
 much out of the way as possible, but evidently he failed 
 to do so to the satisfaction of the conductor. As more 
 passengers forced their way into the car, the man turned 
 to him angrily: 
 
 "Is that yours?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, take it out of there!" 
 
 Carey stumbled forward, groping for the handle of the 
 suitcase. The bell rang, the car lurched. He tripped 
 over some one s foot, but managed to shove the offending 
 luggage further into the corner. 
 
 This was his welcome! These were the first words 
 addressed to him! He straightened himself with diffi 
 culty, his hat awry, tears of hot mortification and utter 
 forlornness welling up into his eyes. He winked them 
 back savagely and gazed out into the street with its squat, 
 dingy houses, their opened doorways aflood with light, 
 people sitting upon their steps, the pavement swarming 
 with children. 
 
THE AMATEUR 17 
 
 In a moment he had control of himself and, when the 
 conductor turned to him for his fare, he stared fiercely 
 at him as he handed him his nickel. The malignity of 
 his gaze was unnoticed, but Carey nevertheless felt that 
 the words of stern rebuke that he formulated in his 
 mind had been spoken, and the conductor put in his 
 place. 
 
 He found the courage presently to ask a thin, elderly 
 person with a scraggy beard, who had wedged in next 
 to him, how soon the car would reach the street where 
 he knew he must get off. The man, noticing him for the 
 first time, eyed him curiously, aware at once that he was a 
 stranger in the city. He nodded his grey head at him 
 several times emphatically, indicating that he understood, 
 and presently, after the car had trundled past several 
 crossings and Carey had about made up his mind that 
 his question had been forgotten, the man grunted and, 
 as the car came to a standstill, gave Carey s arm a claw- 
 like clutch and, pointing the direction with a bony finger, 
 shoved him energetically in the back. 
 
 Carey extricated his suitcase with difficulty and in 
 another moment found himself on the street corner, still 
 with a miserable feeling of being forsaken, as the crowded 
 car went on bumping and jangling down the street. 
 
 But his loneliness left him a moment later when his 
 eyes fell upon a well-known landmark just two short 
 blocks away. It was almost like meeting an unexpected 
 friend. With a sudden return of interest, he peered up 
 at the street names on the lamp-post. Fifth Avenue! 
 This was it! He was on Fifth Avenue! One of the 
 great thoroughfares of the world! And what a noble, 
 majestic street it was, with its rows of lights alternately 
 placed on either side of the street, converging gradually 
 
i8 THE AMATEUR 
 
 in parallel lines, melting into a distant haze of mysterious, 
 pale glory! 
 
 And that was the Washington Arch ! He had seen many 
 photographs and pictures of it. One of his most suc 
 cessful posters back home had been made from a photo 
 graph of it. Beyond there must be Washington Square. 
 A confused murmur of sound came to him from that 
 direction. As he picked up his suitcase and turned toward 
 it, it increased in volume until presently he became aware 
 that it arose from the shrill cries of many children at play. 
 The Square was teeming with them, roller-skating, shout 
 ing, screaming. A mad ecstasy, a wild abandon seemed 
 to possess them. 
 
 It was about nine o clock, and the night was very 
 warm. The trees were heavy with their new foliage. 
 On the benches sat the children s elders, Italians for the 
 most part, foreigners almost entirely. The mingled jar 
 gon of their voices raised in altercation made a distinct 
 minor note in all the hubbub about them. 
 
 Then, on a sudden, through a break in the nearest trees, 
 Carey saw the flaming cross surmounting the church on 
 the other side of the Square. Threading his way among 
 the dodging children, he crossed over to it, and in 
 another moment entered the building next door, which 
 was his hotel. 
 
 His dollar-a-day room was little more than a box. The 
 one window faced upon an air-well and a blank wall. In 
 the centre of a white, linen cloth, arranged diagonally 
 upon a spiral-legged table in the middle of the room was 
 a thick red Bible. A cheap bureau flanked the bed, and on 
 the other side stood a wash stand with basin and ewer and 
 slop-jar. A couple of red upholstered chairs with some 
 what ragged fringe and sagging seats hugged the wall op 
 posite the bed. Above these in gilt frames of ornate scroll 
 
THE AMATEUR 19 
 
 work, hung two photograveurs which at some time had 
 been irreparably damaged by dampness. The frames were 
 tarnished and the heavy paper which supported the pic 
 tures had commenced to buckle; long, curving furrows 
 ran across them like arrested ripples of a pond. One of 
 these pictures represented a girl in a riding habit, her 
 crop tucked beneath her arm, feeding an apple to her 
 horse; it was entitled "Thoroughbreds." The other 
 showed the shrinking forms of a pair of fair-haired lads 
 in doublet and hose and bore the legend in flowing script : 
 "The Princes in the Tower." The room was unfriendly, 
 comfortless and cheerless. It reflected the entire atmos 
 phere of the hotel, which, from the groups of elderly 
 ladies gathered in the main hall downstairs, to the doors 
 of the creeping elevator which swung outward, impressed 
 Carey more as a large boarding house. 
 
 It was too early to go to bed, although he was tired. 
 He wanted a bath, but he had no idea where the bath 
 room was, and he disliked the fuss of ringing for a boy 
 and soap and towels. It would have embarrassed him ; he 
 decided to wait until he felt more at home. Partially 
 unpacking his suitcase, he got out a pad of paper and 
 his fountain pen, and began a long letter to his mother. 
 
 As he wrote, the sense of his own friendlessness and 
 loneliness returned to him. His room was dreary and 
 depressing. The elevator, across the corridor, began its 
 slow ascent with a muffled whine that gradually mounted 
 the octave, abruptly ceasing when the car came to a 
 standstill. From the air-well rose the smell of boiling 
 clothes and shrill voices of servants below. But, ever 
 persistent, dominating all other noises, prevailed the 
 distant murmur from the Square, punctuated occasionally 
 by some child s sharp scream. 
 
20 THE AMATEUR 
 
 At ten minutes to twelve, Carey woke suddenly to find 
 his head lying upon the sheets of his unfinished letter, 
 his fountain pen still gripped between his fingers. He 
 undressed hurriedly, struggling against his drowsiness, 
 turned off the electric light, and crawled into bed. The 
 light from the room directly above his own, thrown 
 against the side of the air-well opposite his window, was 
 reflected again on the wall beside his bed, quavering and 
 ghostly. The elevator in the hotel recommenced its 
 whine. It stopped at his floor, and some people passed 
 down the corridor, laughing. They paused almost beside 
 his room. There was an interchange of "good-nights," 
 and a final "Hope you sleep well." A door shut; a 
 receding murmur of footsteps and voices. Then abruptly 
 a knob rattled, some one stepped out into the hall. 
 
 "Mrs. Striker! Here s your music . . . satisfactory 
 . . . his enunciation . . ." 
 
 A man answered : 
 
 "Oh, thank you. That s the fourth time . . . Well, 
 you re very kind . . . good-night !" 
 
 Carey thought of New York, of his strange surround 
 ings, of the place where he had hidden his money, and fell 
 asleep. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 CAREY was in his twenty-fourth year when he came 
 to New York. He appeared a year or so younger 
 on account of the fairness of his hair and the clear fresh 
 ness of his skin. He had the Teutonic colouring, although 
 no one could have mistaken his Americanism. His bright 
 yellow hair, which he always wore close-cropped, had a 
 tendency to curl and cling to his head in a series of tiny 
 waves. His eyes, of a somewhat sombre blue, were well 
 placed on either side of a straight nose. Beneath the 
 eyebrows, which were long and ended in an upward tilt, 
 the flesh formed a firm, round cushion like the ball of a 
 thumb beneath the skin. This had the effect of making 
 his face appear heavy and unresponsive, and would have 
 been a serious handicap had it not been for the ingratiat 
 ing quality of his smile. His mouth was large and sensi 
 tive, and, when he smiled, it was like the grin of a school 
 boy, both appealing and full of charm. Two sharply 
 indicated parentheses in either cheek were the result 
 of this ready expression of good humour and amusement. 
 The most noticeable qualities of his face were his promi 
 nent cheek-bones, like those of a young Indian, and his 
 high colour which varied rarely. He was of medium 
 height, with rather a narrow chest, and weighed a little 
 over a hundred and fifty pounds. 
 
 21 
 
22 THE AMATEUR 
 
 He was born in a western city that boasted a quarter of 
 a million inhabitants. His parents had moved there a 
 few years before his birth, as his father s health de 
 manded a mild climate. There was a considerable dis 
 parity between his parents ages. In after years he was 
 often to wonder what strange attraction had drawn 
 them together. His father was a man of affairs, a man 
 of the world, a musician, a connoisseur of art. More 
 over, he was rich. Carey s home, for the early part of 
 his life, had been one of luxury. 
 
 His mother, on the other hand, twenty years her 
 husband s junior, was shy and retiring, extremely do 
 mestic and deeply religious. Almost from his birth, 
 Carey s mother was haunted by the fear that her son 
 was doomed to fill a drunkard s grave. There was not 
 the slightest ground for her apprehension. While Virgil 
 Williams drank an occasional glass of wine, or even some 
 thing stronger when the occasion arose, Carey had never 
 seen his father when the slightest suspicion could have 
 been aroused as to his sobriety. There was no accounting 
 for his mother s dread of her son s acquiring the taste 
 for liquor. It formed the theme of the greater part of 
 her morning and nightly prayers. At times, particularly 
 on Sunday afternoons, she would entice Carey into a 
 quiet corner of the home, cut off, by carefully planned 
 manoeuvring, every means of escape, and then plead with 
 him to withstand the evils of the Demon Rum. Im 
 pressed with the danger of drawing too tight a rein, she 
 occasionally permitted the appearance of beer upon the 
 table on the excuse that a Welsh rarebit afforded ; and a 
 decanter, half-filled with grocer s claret upon the side 
 board in the dining room, bore evidence, so she told her 
 self, to her open-mindedness on the subject. But Carey 
 invariably noticed her apprehensive eyes upon him as he 
 
THE AMATEUR 23 
 
 drank his glass of beer, and once, coming suddenly upon 
 her at the sideboard, he found her holding the claret de 
 canter to the light, comparing the height of the liquor 
 with the impression left by some previous inspection. 
 
 There was little ground of mutual interest upon which 
 his parents could meet. His mother s taste in literature 
 ran to such books as Rose Mather, Happy-go-lucky, 
 The Woman in White, Won by Waiting, The Heir of 
 Reddyffe and the novels of E. P. Roe. She thought 
 "those pretty tunes from Trovatore and Traviata 
 very pleasing." The Wedding March from Lohengrin 
 the last syllable of which she pronounced to rhyme 
 with Rhine and Schubert s "Serenade" were among her 
 favourites in music. Curiously, while she, by compari 
 son, cared little for either books or music, she found a 
 great deal of pleasure in pictures. The consummate 
 masterpiece of the world s art for her was the painting 
 by Sir Edwin Landseer entitled A Distinguished Mem 
 ber of the Humane Society, representing a great New 
 foundland dog lying upon a stone pier, his forepaws rest 
 ing complacently upon the curbing, his head erect, his 
 eyes looking placidly out of the picture. A fine steel 
 engraving of this work of art hung above the coal grate 
 in her room, and Carey often found his mother, with 
 arms resting upon the mantel beneath, gazing absorbedly 
 at it, unheedful of his presence, lost in revery. 
 
 "Was there ever so noble a look upon a man s face, 
 Carey?" Mrs. Williams would ask him. "There must 
 be a place in Heaven for such dogs as that." 
 
 Mr. Williams regarded his wife s ideas on art, music 
 and literature with amused tolerance. Carey was not 
 aware of it at the time, but years afterwards he came 
 to realise that his father, appreciating the gulf between 
 his own mind and his wife s, had long since ceased to 
 
24 THE AMATEUR 
 
 attempt to bridge it. Virgil Williams was a man of cul 
 ture, a university graduate, a man who had travelled 
 extensively. As he grew on in years, travelling became 
 his greatest source of amusement. He took little interest 
 in Carey. At a very early age, the boy could remember 
 that once his father had swung him to his shoulder and 
 marched about the library table singing : 
 
 "I m Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines, 
 I feed my horse on corn and beans." 
 
 But this was one of the very few occasions when his 
 father had shown him affection. Of thrashings and pun 
 ishments there had been many, but, in justice to Virgil 
 Williams, let it be said that these had not been severe. 
 His son irritated him. He was noisy and obstreperous ; 
 he rattled the silverware at the table; he talked con 
 tinually. The father suffered from dyspepsia and often 
 came home with a severe headache. Frequently he did 
 not come home until after Carey had gone to bed. He 
 dined at his club or with friends. As Carey grew older, 
 his father came home to dinner less and less often. But, 
 once or twice a week, Williams Senior, seized with one 
 of his terrible headaches, drove up to his door in a coupe 
 and was helped upstairs and into bed by the hackman and 
 the butler. Then it was that Mrs. Williams made up 
 to her husband for the many times she exasperated and 
 wearied him. Kneeling by the great walnut bed in the 
 darkened guest-room beside the gaunt figure stretched out 
 immovable beneath the sheet, she wrung out the ice-cold 
 cloths from the huge silver-plated pitcher in which the 
 ice rattled and clinked, and placed the dripping, cold com 
 presses one after another upon his burning forehead at 
 minute intervals. 
 
THE AMATEUR 25 
 
 At such -times, Carey knew the safest place for him 
 was outside the house. No noise of any kind, not even 
 a footfall or spoken word, must disturb the sick man. 
 
 Once the boy had come home late, and had entered 
 the house not knowing his father had returned before 
 him, carried up to bed, blind with pain. Carey romped 
 through the hall, flung his school books into the hall 
 closet, banged the door, and came up the stairs two at a 
 time. He never forgot the towering figure, clad in the 
 white, scant nightgown, that met him at the head of 
 the stairs. The hollow sockets beneath the contracted 
 brows in which his father s eyes leaped as tiny flames, 
 the drawn cheeks, the dripping grey hair, the clawlike 
 hands, one caught at the opening of the nightshirt, the 
 other clutching the ice cloth, and his mother s shrinking 
 figure cowering behind, left an ineradicable impression 
 upon his mind. The utter terror that possessed him at the 
 moment forever left its mark upon him. Thereafter, if 
 suddenly he came upon his father, or was surprised by 
 him at some unexpected meeting, he could not control 
 the start or the succeeding shudder that seized him. His 
 father saw that his son shrank from him at such times, 
 and it annoyed and angered him. 
 
 And yet Carey was not without a feeling of affection 
 for his father. Mr. Williams provided for the boy 
 generously. He was sent to the best schools; he had a 
 discriminating music teacher; even a physical instructor 
 was engaged for a time. It was as if the man, realising 
 his lack of interest in his son, sought to make up to him 
 in such material advantages. 
 
 Before he moved to the West, Virgil Williams had 
 amassed a considerable fortune. He had the instincts of 
 the financier. If business or profession he had, it was 
 that of a promoter. His reputation in this respect was 
 
26 THE AMATEUR 
 
 considerable. The majority of his investments justified 
 his faith in them. When he gambled, he did so knowingly 
 and conservatively. All his dealings had been with 
 inconsiderable amounts, and yet the aggregate of his 
 profits made a respectable total. He married when he 
 was forty, and felt that he could retire at forty-three. It 
 was with this in mind that he had gone West. But the 
 man failed to understand his own nature. He found 
 that he could not settle down to a life of leisure. He 
 began to dabble in a half -interested way in local real 
 estate. Then Carey was born, and the father took a 
 six months trip to Europe, leaving the baby and his 
 young wife at home. 
 
 It must have been upon his return that Virgil Williams 
 began to realise that he had outgrown his wife. A pas 
 sionate music-lover himself, and a pianist of no small 
 attainment, he failed utterly to awake in his wife any 
 interest in Bach, Beethoven or the music dramas of 
 Wagner. During the winter following his European 
 trip, he made a flying visit to New York for the concerts 
 and opera. Thereafter, this visit became an annual 
 affair, which stretched from weeks into months. He 
 never took Carey s mother with him. 
 
 In addition to his awakened interest in music, Virgil 
 Williams brought home with him from Europe some 
 very fine Piranese etchings and an excellent copy of 
 Greuze s Cruche Cassee, together with many excep 
 tional photographs of the old masters work. But his 
 wife had no appreciation for them, and most of the 
 etchings he gave to his friends. The Cruche Cassee he 
 presented to his club. On his subsequent trips to Europe 
 he never again brought back anything to beautify his 
 home. 
 
 On more than one occasion, before his departure, he 
 
THE AMATEUR 27 
 
 had urged his wife to accompany him. But Mrs. Wil 
 liams felt his dissatisfaction with her and the boy, and 
 pleaded her own health or Carey s schooling as the excuse 
 to remain at home. 
 
 When Carey was twelve years old, his father went 
 on a trip around the world. He was gone for over a 
 year, and during this time the boy was aware of a subtle 
 change that came over his mother. He knew, in some 
 vague way, that she was unhappy. Occasionally he found 
 her in tears, reading over the letters that irregularly 
 arrived from his father. But she never took her son 
 into her confidence. The boy, however, felt she was de 
 pressed with a growing anxiety, and he was troubled. 
 
 Suddenly, without further warning, the catastrophe 
 he instinctively felt to be impending overtook them. 
 
 A lawyer, with full power-of -attorney, arrived from 
 New York, with instructions from Virgil Williams to 
 sell all the real estate holdings that he owned in their 
 city, including the homestead. Mrs. Williams, frightened 
 and beside herself with the conflicting advice of many 
 friends, engaged a local firm of attorneys. An injunc 
 tion was procured in time to prevent the sale, but no 
 explanation was forthcoming from Virgil Williams, who 
 had returned to America and was living in New York. 
 
 Events succeeded one another rapidly too rapidly for 
 Carey to follow with any adequate comprehension of 
 their meaning. His father brought suit for divorce on the 
 absurd ground of desertion. His mother hid herself in the 
 house of a friend and so frustrated the efforts of the 
 process-servers. After much misgiving, and driven to 
 the necessity of taking some action by the cessation of 
 all her income, Mrs. Williams brought a counter suit 
 for divorce, which her husband allowed to go by default. 
 Provision for the wife and son was made by deeding all 
 
28 THE AMATEUR 
 
 the property in the western city to Mrs. Williams and 
 making a cash settlement of ten thousand dollars. 
 
 Two months later, his mother told Carey that the day 
 after the divorce was granted his father had remarried. 
 
 It was about this time that Carey began to develop a 
 great desire to become an artist. His mother s income 
 having been cut in half, the necessity of his doing some 
 thing to earn a living became immediately apparent. The 
 home was sold, and his mother bought a smaller house 
 in which they began their life under the new conditions. 
 But these first years were not happy for either of them. 
 Mrs. Williams brooded over her husband s alienation 
 and grew bitter. Carey accepted the situation with 
 youth s indifference. His father had been at home so 
 little, it did not matter whether he stayed away alto 
 gether. He could not sympathise with his mother s 
 resentment of the wrong that had been done herself and 
 son or with her offended pride. He could not share her 
 opinion of his father s selfishness. She knew her hus 
 band s weaknesses and the more she reflected upon the 
 ease with which he had escaped from a situation that was 
 distasteful to him, the more indignant and incensed she 
 became. In the distressed state of her mind, her early 
 fear of her son becoming a drunkard returned to harass 
 and terrify her. She nagged Carey accordingly and he, 
 insensible to the bitterness and sorrow that lay heavy 
 at her heart, grew sullen and ill-tempered. 
 
 Their income, which at first had been ample for their 
 needs, soon began to decrease owing to bad investments 
 and mismanagement. At the end of his second year at 
 the high school, Carey finally prevailed upon his mother 
 to let him take a course in the Art School affiliated with 
 the neighbouring university. 
 
THE AMATEUR 29 
 
 He soon began to justify the wisdom of this step. 
 At the end of a year, he was one of the most promising 
 students in the school, and was singled out to form one 
 of a special class of ten or so to take individual instruc 
 tion in colour work under Klaus Gustav Eschen, a land 
 scape painter of considerable reputation and quite the 
 biggest man in art matters in their community. Pro 
 fessor Eschen took a genuine liking to Carey and, perhaps 
 because of the boy s sunny disposition, perhaps because 
 of his earnestness and ability, laboured with him more 
 than he did with the others. 
 
 It was on the summer sketching trip that followed the 
 close of the first year s work that Carey made a friend 
 of Joe Downer. The sketching class was composed of 
 about eighteen of the Art School s students who could 
 afford the time and the expense. Of their number, eleven 
 were women, and these, for the most part, were what 
 Carey described as elderly. Certainly, the youngest were 
 two sisters who, generously speaking, must have been 
 nearing the thirties. Of the men, three were married and 
 two were deaf and dumb, which threw the remaining pair 
 into one another s constant society. Perhaps this was 
 the only way they could ever have become friends, for 
 Joe Downer was seven years Carey s senior, a silent, gen 
 tle sort of person, conscientious to an irritating degree, 
 slow, shy, and sensitive as a child. They returned from 
 this trip sworn friends, and Joe thereafter became Carey s 
 blind and abject slave. He conceived a dumb and un 
 swerving affection for the boy that was almost sublime 
 in its unselfish devotion. Carey soon accepted it as a 
 matter of course, and imposed upon Joe s kindness at 
 times, often hurting his friend s sensitive feelings cruelly. 
 But Carey was not aware of this. Joe did not know how 
 to reproach him, even if he had wished to do so. 
 
36 THE AMATEUR 
 
 It was Joe s praise and admiration for Carey s work 
 that led the boy to drop out of the Art School and go 
 to work, free-lancing. Joe believed firmly that Carey s 
 future was to be that of a great artist. A sketch, an idle 
 note for a composition, a dog s outline upon a scrap of 
 paper, discarded by Carey or tossed into a waste-paper 
 basket, would be stealthily recovered and reverently 
 pasted in a scrap-book kept for that purpose. Old Pro 
 fessor Eschen pleaded in vain with Carey to finish the 
 course. Every one of his instructors, even his mother, 
 added their arguments. Carey was obdurate. He told 
 them he didn t want to be a painter or an "artist" ; it was 
 his ambition to become an illustrator. He pored over 
 the magazines, knew the names of most of the illustra 
 tors, and referred to them glibly. Three huge portfolios, 
 crammed with the pictures he admired, bore witness to 
 his interest in this line of his profession. He made a 
 frieze about his room with the posters by Edward Dan- 
 gerfield and Perry Maxwell and other artists that lead 
 ing monthly magazines had issued within the past few 
 years, and he would go almost any length to add to his 
 collection. His proudest possessions were an original pen 
 and ink sketch by Castle Jerome, one of the most prom 
 inent illustrators of the day, which had appeared in a 
 comic weekly, and another of President Roosevelt by a 
 famous cartoonist. 
 
 The determining factor which led Carey finally to take 
 the step he had so long discussed with Joe Downer was 
 the winning of a contest for the best poster advertising 
 the State Fair. The prize was two hundred and fifty 
 dollars ; but it was not so much the money that mattered 
 as the prestige his success brought him. His photograph 
 was published in the three local newspapers, and he was 
 at once elected to the Pen and Brush Club, an exclusive 
 
THE AMATEUR 31 
 
 organisation composed of the best writers and artists 
 in the city. He became its youngest member. 
 
 Joe Downer had a studio in which he lived as well as 
 worked, and he suggested they should share this. Carey 
 accepted his offer, although he continued to live at home 
 with his mother. Downer s income consisted of fifty 
 dollars a month, paid to him from his father s insurance, 
 and whatever else he could earn from work with local 
 advertisers. It was meagre enough ; but Joe was thrifty, 
 and managed to get along comfortably. 
 
 Carey was nearly nineteen when he launched out for 
 himself. For the first three months he worked with a 
 passionate devotion, determined to show his mother and 
 his instructors at the Art School that he had not been 
 over-confident. In that time he finished three magazine 
 covers and drew a dozen pen-and-ink sketches, illustrating 
 his own jokes, which he sent East. He competed in a 
 poster contest for a cash prize offered by a cereal manu 
 facturer, and submitted a water-colour sketch for the 
 cover of a booklet to the advertising manager of the great 
 railroad which had its general offices in his own city. At 
 the end of three months, his covers and sketches were all 
 returned, and his poster in the cereal contest was lost 
 in the office of the manufacturer. He never obtained 
 the slightest satisfaction for it. But the advertising 
 manager of the railroad company wrote him to come and 
 see him, and offered him twenty-five dollars a week to 
 illustrate the booklets and folders issued by the Passenger 
 Department of the railroad. 
 
 The General Passenger Agent had noticed Carey s 
 poster for the State Fair, and had spoken about it to 
 the Advertising Manager as the kind of thing he liked, 
 pointing it out with his stick one day when he and the 
 Advertising Manager were going to lunch together. It 
 
32 THE AMATEUR 
 
 was to that slight incident Carey owed the offer. He 
 accepted it gladly and went proudly home to tell Joe and 
 his mother about it. A hundred dollars a month seemed 
 a great deal of money to him ; he had never had so much 
 to spend before, and he felt that life was easy and the 
 world a simple thing to bring humbly to his feet. 
 
 But he paid dearly for this mistake. In accepting the 
 offer from the railroad, he forged about his hands and 
 feet shackles that soon began to gall and chafe him. 
 Within a year they seemed to be unendurable; but it 
 took four years of unhappiness, discouragement and self- 
 disgust to shake them off. 
 
 He never liked to look back upon this period of his 
 life. His work with the railroad lost its zest within 
 two months after he had undertaken it. It required 
 little artistic ability, little work and little thought. 
 It soon became a source of easy income and 
 nothing more. He had no definite hours, and would drop 
 in at the offices of the railroad only when he was sum 
 moned. The result was that he never rose from his bed 
 until after nine in the morning, and most of his time, 
 when he was not working in Joe s studio, was spent at 
 the Pen and Brush Club playing poker, drinking, and 
 associating with other idlers like himself. 
 
 It was Joe s devotion that kept Carey free from con 
 tamination during this period. There were times when 
 there would be serious talk between the two, and Carey 
 would not go near the Club for a week ; but he was very 
 young, extremely popular, and the attraction was strong. 
 
 The worst result to Carey at this time was the dwin 
 dling of his ambition. It became dormant. He no longer 
 wanted to become an illustrator. The desire for creation 
 left him. He was in a rut, and he didn t care enough to 
 get out of it. In a vague, indefinite fashion, he longed 
 
THE AMATEUR 33 
 
 to break away and begin to paint and draw again as he 
 had when he was at the Art School but he did not know 
 how to go about it. He took refuge in blaming the lack 
 of opportunity in their western city. No one really knew 
 anything about art there the illustrator s art his kind 
 of art. New York was the place! There brains and 
 ability were recognised ! He wanted to go to New York 
 and, at the end of his second year with the railroad, he 
 announced to every one that he was going. He even got 
 so far as to set a date; but it was postponed, and again 
 postponed, and another year slipped by before he knew it. 
 Carey would often sit back from his drawing board 
 on which there might be a sketch of a Pullman porter 
 deferentially aiding a passenger with his luggage to 
 find Joe Downer gazing at him, troubled and anxious, his 
 grey eyes full of affection and concern. Joe never re 
 proached him or upbraided him. Carey told himself he 
 would have minded it much less if he had. The incident 
 that brought Carey to his senses was much more effective 
 than anything Joe could have said or done. 
 
 On a certain New Year s Eve, after Carey had been 
 with the railroad for nearly four years, he had the dis 
 agreeable experience of being arrested. He unquestion 
 ably had drunk much more champagne than he should, 
 and that complicated the matter. He had been dining 
 with a number of the younger members of the Pen and 
 Brush Club at a popular restaurant, where they had en 
 gaged a table for some time in advance. Their party had 
 been noisy and conspicuous, and the manager of the 
 place had twice requested them to be less obstreperous. 
 Carey s offence was not serious. Wandering among the 
 crowded tables, speaking to one group of friends after 
 another, he stopped before a couple an old man and his 
 daughter bowed and smiled and, picking up the lady s 
 
34 THE AMATEUR 
 
 champagne glass, drained it and broke the stem of it 
 in two. 
 
 The old gentleman failed to understand the tribute. 
 He promptly knocked Carey down. A disorderly scene 
 followed. Carey s club mates rushed to his assistance, 
 and a waiter who attempted to interfere was knocked to 
 the floor in turn. A mad, free-for-all fight ensued be 
 tween waiters and clubmen, tables were overturned, 
 glass and chinaware broken, mirrors smashed. Abruptly 
 the police appeared, swinging their clubs, and the fight 
 was over. Carey, dragged out from beneath the general 
 debris by a gigantic policeman, was hustled with the rest 
 of his friends through a fast-gathering and staring crowd 
 into the waiting patrol wagon and locked up in the station 
 house on the charge of "drunken and disorderly con 
 duct." Two hours later, Joe arrived and bailed him out. 
 He did not appear in court when the case was called, pur 
 posely forfeiting his bail and the incident was seemingly 
 closed. 
 
 But the two hours in the police pen opened Carey s 
 eyes. His remorse was so acute that Joe s heart ached 
 for him. Fortunately, Mrs. Williams never heard about 
 the affair, and it got to the ears of very few of Carey s 
 friends. But, to the boy, this made little difference. 
 
 His first act toward regeneration was his prompt res 
 ignation from the Pen and Brush Club; his second, leav 
 ing his mother s house for a time and going to live with 
 Joe. For the four months following, he worked hard 
 and determinedly. He was seriously in debt, but Joe 
 taught him how to save and, by the end of that time, 
 he had paid all he owed. Without waiting for further 
 developments, he borrowed two hundred dollars from 
 Joe, and decided to take the plunge and try his luck in 
 New York. Four months had worn out his patience and 
 
THE AMATEUR 35 
 
 endurance. He had lived the life of self-denial and self- 
 restraint as long as he was able, and it was more his 
 distrust of himself, his fear of returning to his old habits 
 and associates, than the desire to satisfy his ambition, 
 that finally drove him to accept Joe s proffered loan and 
 make the break. His mother could not understand his 
 wish to get away, and reproached him for what she 
 described as "want of heart." She felt he was too young 
 to withstand the temptations to vice in New York, and 
 threw the responsibility of his going on Joe. 
 
 "It s your doing," she said to him with bitterness. "If 
 he comes home a confirmed drunkard, I ll have you to 
 thank for it." 
 
 Professor Eschen gave him a letter of introduction to 
 a celebrated portrait painter in New York, and the mem 
 bers of the Pen and Brush Club made his departure the 
 occasion for a farewell dinner. The Advertising Man 
 ager of the railroad secured him an employe s pass to 
 New York, and, thus equipped, Carey left home. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 CAREY presented his letter of introduction to John 
 Seymore Jarvis on the second day after his arrival 
 in New York. Monday he had spent on a Broadway 
 surface car, riding from the Battery almost to Harlem 
 and back. He walked Forty-second Street, and Thirty- 
 fourth and Twenty-third, and had his dinner in a Childs 
 restaurant In the evening he had bought a seat in the 
 gallery for "The Prince of Pilsen," a comic opera that 
 had been running all winter, and reached his hotel at 
 midnight, utterly fagged out. His most thrilling experi 
 ence of the day had been when, across one of the unex 
 pected tree-shaded squares, he had caught sight of the 
 gold sign of the Occident Company. Some day he d 
 sell them a cover design or a picture for their magazine, 
 and some day they d send for him and ask him to illustrate 
 a serial! He determined to make his first rounds of 
 the magazine offices and show the samples of his work 
 that he had brought with him, just as soon as he was set 
 tled. He was on fire to begin. 
 
 John Seymore Jarvis studio was located on the corner 
 of Sixth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street. Carey had 
 no difficulty in finding it. It was one of a great many 
 ateliers that composed a large brick corner building. The 
 side of this building facing Fifty-seventh Street was 
 
 36 
 
THE AMATEUR 37 
 
 broken by a number of tall, wide windows of prismed 
 glass, which threw the precious north light into the 
 farthest corners of the studios. Inside, Carey was re 
 minded of his high school at home, with its uncarpeted 
 floors and wide halls. But the place had a curious atmos 
 phere. There was no room here for shams or dilettantes. 
 It was a place for work for achievement. However 
 unattractive and barren the halls might be, Carey realised 
 that, on the other side of the closed doors that flanked 
 the echoing corridors, there were many luxurious and 
 beautiful rooms. An open door into one of these suites 
 gave him a glimpse of tapestries, carved oaken furniture 
 and tall candles. A capped and aproned maid was gath 
 ering up the mail that had been thrust behind the door 
 knob and had fallen to the floor. On many of the doors 
 were the names of those who lived in the studio apart 
 ments. Carey thought some of these seemed familiar 
 and, just as he had placed his finger on the electric push 
 button of Apartment 51, on the door of which appeared 
 the name of John Seymore Jarvis, he caught sight of 
 another on the opposite side of the hall that brought a 
 glad smile of recognition to his face. Gregory Shilling 
 one of the best-known of the magazine illustrators! 
 It was like meeting an old friend. Here, undoubtedly, 
 had been painted many of those pictures whose reproduc 
 tions he had cut from East and West and Stapleton s and 
 pasted in his scrap-book at home. 
 
 He was standing, still fascinated by the well-known 
 name, when the door before him was jerked open by a 
 grey-bearded man clad in a painter s smock, a huge palette 
 and a bunch of brushes in his left hand. 
 
 "Well?" he demanded, impatiently. "What is it?" 
 For a moment Carey was too embarrassed to utter a 
 word. His hand fumbled in the breast pocket of his coat 
 
38 THE AMATEUR 
 
 and trembled as he picked out Professor Eschen s letter 
 of introduction from the little bundle of envelopes and 
 papers. He handed this to the man and reached for his 
 card-case, trying to focus his mind on doing the correct 
 thing; he felt confused and his fingers were all thumbs. 
 The painter, however, was evidently too preoccupied to 
 notice the boy s embarrassment. 
 
 "What is it?" he said again, reading the address on 
 the envelope. His hand being occupied with palette 
 and brushes, he made no attempt to extract the letter. 
 
 "It s a letter from Professor Eschen," Carey said. He 
 had found his calling card by this time, but he saw no 
 way of handing it to Mr. Jarvis. 
 
 "Eschen who, Klaus Eschen? What s he want?" 
 The painter stared at the envelope, turning it over to ex 
 amine the back, in the obvious hope that upon its reverse 
 side he might obtain enlightenment. 
 
 Carey thought with sullen indignation afterwards that 
 what he should have said in reply to this was: "Why 
 don t you read it and see!" Instead, his voice failed 
 him utterly for the moment, and he shifted his feet and 
 crumpled the card in his hand. He felt that he was 
 behaving like a school-boy and that Jarvis was hardly 
 to be blamed for his rudeness. 
 
 "It s a letter introducing me," he finally blurted out. 
 
 "Oh ah !" Jarvis examined the envelope again 
 
 and then looked, as if for the first time, at Carey. 
 
 "Well can you come again? I have a sitter just at 
 present; I can t see you now. You re a friend of 
 Eschen s? A pupil? Well come and see me to-morrow. 
 There s a lady posing." With a backward movement of 
 his head he indicated his studio, and Carey, through the 
 chink of the door, caught a glimpse of a dias, a woman s 
 figure, a heavy brocaded gown and plumed hat. 
 
THE AMATEUR 39 
 
 "I m sorry," the painter continued; "but come to 
 morrow. I ll be glad to see you." 
 
 He shut the door in Carey s face. 
 
 Carey stood staring blankly at its flat surface for some 
 moments while he strove to control the wave of anger 
 that rose up violently within him. He wanted to fling 
 himself against it and beat it down. Tears welled up into 
 his eyes, tears of outraged pride and bitter resentment; 
 he threw his head far back upon his shoulders, gazing 
 upward at the bare ceiling above him, to keep them from 
 falling. Slowly he walked down to the end of the vacant, 
 echoing hall and stood looking out of the window for 
 some unseeing minutes. Presently, as a sudden deter 
 mination seized him, he strode down the hall again and 
 stopped in front of the door opposite Apartment 51. 
 There was no bell, but he used the brass knocker and 
 when the door was opened, he asked the servant if Mr. 
 Shilling was in. 
 
 In another moment he found himself in a beautiful 
 studio with a high skylight and panelled walls. There 
 were pictures everywhere, framed and unframed, paint 
 ings, sketches, charcoal studies, wash drawings, pen and 
 inks. Portfolios bulging to the bursting point with more 
 drawings stood in corners. A lay figure in a Japanese 
 kimono was propped in a chair, an incongruous Civil-war 
 soldier s cap awry upon its head. Beneath the skylight 
 were three windows of leaded diamond panes. One of 
 these was open, casement fashion, and the breeze had 
 blown many loose papers from the window seat upon 
 the floor. In front of the windows were two drawing 
 boards on swivel standards. The top of one of these 
 was tilted vertically, and in its centre was thumb-tacked 
 a piece of galley proof marked in its margin with a heavy 
 blue pencil. A dozen or so cigarette stubs lay among the 
 
40 THE AMATEUR 
 
 scattered papers on the floor, and there was a scent of 
 stale tobacco smoke in the air. 
 
 Gregory Shilling was a young man, very much younger 
 than Carey had imagined possible. He was tall, clean 
 shaven, square jawed, with a mop of black hair across 
 his forehead. He wore a smoking jacket and his feet 
 were thrust into moccasins. Carey did not hear his 
 padded footsteps and was not aware that he had entered 
 the room until his warm, friendly voice addressed him. 
 
 "Mr. Williams what can I do for you?" 
 
 Carey turned about to find him coming toward him, 
 holding the calling card in his hand, a large calabash pipe 
 gripped in his firm-set mouth. Something in the artist s 
 face gave the boy confidence. 
 
 "I I have been a long admirer of your work, Mr. 
 Shilling," he began falteringly. "My home s out West; 
 I only arrived in New York two days ago. I ve come 
 here to break into the illustrator s game, if I can." 
 
 He paused, confused. Shilling waited expectantly. 
 
 "I ve been following your work," the boy continued, 
 "ever since you began in East and West. An old pro 
 fessor of mine at the Art School gave me a letter to 
 John Seymore Jarvis, and I called here this afternoon to 
 present it, but but Mr. Jarvis was busy; he had a sit 
 ting." 
 
 The memory of his ungracious reception came back 
 to him, and the blood rushed into his face. Abruptly his 
 confidence left him. He was overwhelmed with the 
 sense of the impropriety of having intruded upon Gregory 
 Shilling. He and Jarvis must be close friends. They 
 lived across the hall from one another. What did he 
 expect of Shilling anyway? What was there to be said? 
 
 Defiantly he raised his eyes to meet those of the artist. 
 
 "He shut the door in my face," he said, angrily. "He 
 
THE AMATEUR 41 
 
 took my letter and told me to come again, as though I was 
 a common pedlar, a model, perhaps," he added bitterly. 
 "He didn t ask me my address. He was very rude and 
 and very, very unkind." Carey turned to the casement 
 window to hide the emotion he feared he too plainly 
 revealed. 
 
 "Then I saw your name on the door," he continued, 
 "and I had known of you so long that I felt as though 
 you were a friend, and I had the impulse to come and tell 
 you about it and ask you how a fellow begins. I don t 
 know another living soul in this whole damned city!" 
 
 He heard Shilling gently rapping the ashes out of his 
 pipe and presently the rasp of a match. Then : 
 
 "How old are you, Mr. Williams?" 
 
 "Twenty-three." 
 
 "Had much experience? I mean at drawing?" 
 
 "Four years with a western railroad. I drew the 
 pictures for their advertisements for them." 
 
 "Commercial stuff hey?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you want to be an illustrator ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you know how many artists there are in New 
 York City, according to the last United States census?" 
 He paused a moment to give the statement emphasis. 
 "Twenty-five thousand." 
 
 Carey didn t answer. An overwhelming sense of de 
 pression came upon him. 
 
 "Suppose we sit down, Mr. Williams. I d like to tell 
 you a few things that may be of help to you." He indi 
 cated an arm-chair beside the drawing board, and Carey 
 sat down. Shilling proceeded to wander about, drawing 
 long inhalations from his calabash pipe. 
 
 "Do you know the work of Walter Madison Parke?" 
 
42 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Carey, betraying in his voice his 
 admiration. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Williams, he was the greatest illustrator 
 that ever lived. You probably know that as well as I. 
 No one has ever equalled him, and no one is likely to. 
 His death was a great loss to his profession. Twelve 
 years ago I came to New York, just about as you are 
 doing now. I had been on a newspaper out in Indian 
 apolis, and I wanted to do something bigger. I came on 
 here and got a job on one of the New York evening 
 papers. I thought I was the luckiest man alive. At the 
 end of a month they fired me. A friend took me up and 
 introduced me to Parke. I shall never forget what he 
 told me, and I pass it on to you for what it may be worth 
 to you. He said to me : My dear boy, the illustrator s 
 art is a profession. No one can expect to win success 
 in it without long, hard work, just the same as in any 
 other profession. A boy who determines to become a 
 physician or a lawyer thinks about it a good many years 
 before he commits himself to one or the other of them. 
 He thinks about his qualifications, his abilities, more 
 particularly he thinks about whether he can afford it. 
 It means four years in a medical college, three years in 
 Berlin, and more study in some big surgeon s office when 
 he returns home. With the lawyer it s the same w r ay. 
 He knows that it will take him eight to ten years before 
 he can possibly make a living out of his work. But your 
 artist ! He makes a close copy of one of Charles Hanna 
 Simpson s double-page spreads in Mirth, and his 
 maiden aunt says, "Mercy, Harry s going to be an artist ! 
 He ought to study." And the boy quits school and takes 
 six months or a year in an Art League somewhere, and 
 seven times out of ten he doesn t finish the course; but 
 when he starts in for himself nobody questions his right 
 
THE AMATEUR 43 
 
 to his title of "an artist." He s an artist all right. He 
 can go and solicit manuscripts to illustrate from the 
 magazines as well as the fellow who s been drawing and 
 working and slaving for ten years at his work. " 
 
 "I m trying to give you the same impression, Mr. Wil 
 liams," continued Shilling, sitting down beside him, "that 
 Walter Madison Parke gave me. He said, coming close 
 to me like this and putting his hand on my shoulder, 
 he said, Shilling take my advice go home, go home to 
 your folks, or, if you will stay here in New York, try 
 breaking cobbles or try to reform the town, something 
 easy ! But, for God s sake, don t try to become an artist. 
 
 "And I did," said Shilling, rising to relight his pipe, 
 "just what, in all probability, you will do : I stuck it out. 
 I refused the advice which I am now passing along to 
 you. But I worked. God knows how hard or how long 
 before I made any sort of a go. You won t quit on the 
 strength of what I m telling you. I m not very old my 
 self, but youth knows it all and won t take advice, and 
 you probably think you re going to be a wonder and 
 maybe perhaps maybe you will be. But, let me tell 
 you this one thing: If you are finally to make good, 
 you ve got to work and work like hell, just as if you 
 decided to be a lawyer or a doctor." 
 
 Carey sat still, his eyes fixed on a small brass bowl half 
 full of ashes and burnt ends of cigarettes. He was think 
 ing hard; every word of what Shilling said he knew was 
 the truth. In a halting, unemotional voice, he said, half 
 speaking to himself: 
 
 "If they all took your advice and quit and and 
 went home again, there wouldn t be any good men left 
 in ten or fifteen years. There wouldn t be very many 
 of em at any rate. Some of the fellows who try their 
 luck in New York make good." 
 
44 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "Well, that s the answer," said Gregory Shilling. "I 
 figured it out much the same way a dozen years ago, and 
 I suppose I can say truthfully that I m one of the men 
 that caught on. You may be another/ 
 
 "Would you would you be willing to look at some of 
 my stuff, some of my drawings?" asked Carey. 
 
 Shilling smiled as he shook his head. 
 
 "No use," he said kindly. "I know just what they re 
 like. All beginners work s the same; it s all rotten. 
 Why, the stuff I showed around when I first came here 
 ought to have landed me in jail. I m sure your work will 
 seem amateurish and clumsy, and I wouldn t tell you it 
 was if you should show it to me, for fear of hurting your 
 feelings. You want to remember that what you need 
 to get measured is your determination, your courage, 
 your capacity for work. Your present ability whether 
 you ve got it in you to be an artist nobody can tell you 
 that. 
 
 "But wait. You ought to be started right. You ve 
 got to travel the same route as the rest of us. You ve got 
 to make the rounds of the magazines and advertisers 
 agencies. It will seem useless and hopeless and ridicu 
 lous to you before you ve done; but that s the only road 
 I know of. There is, however, a lot of lost time, and a 
 word or two may save you six months of wasted energy. 
 Sherman of the Consolidated Press Syndicate is the man 
 who will gladly give you that necessary word. Tell him 
 I sent you. I ll give you a card." 
 
 He drew out a tiny drawer from a quaintly carved 
 Japanese chest and picked a card from the box, and 
 scrawled across its face : 
 
 "Introducing Mr. Carey Williams." 
 
 "Sherman s the man you want to see. He ll give you 
 all the points you need. He s the Art Editor of the 
 
THE AMATEUR 
 
 Consolidated ; been there from time immemorial, and he 
 knows all the illustrators in the city and all the ropes. 
 He s a wonder. 
 
 "Now, I hope I haven t discouraged you, my boy," 
 continued Shilling. "It s a hobby of mine, this business 
 of sending untrained, immature youths to New York who 
 consider themselves qualified to be artists. Why, they 
 don t even know what life is, let alone what art is. And 
 let me say one thing more to you, Mr. Williams : to be a 
 great artist whether a painter, a musician, writer or 
 sculptor you ve got to know what life is, before you can 
 expect to depict it or interpret it." 
 
 Carey walked back to Washington Square and sat 
 on a bench under the trees and thought about himself 
 and his work and the things that Gregory Shilling had 
 told him, until it was late in the evening. A continu 
 ous stream of people passed, children romped about his 
 feet, a fat Italian woman came and sat beside him, gently 
 rolling back and forth a dilapidated perambulator, from 
 whose depths arose an occasional whimper. But Carey 
 neither heard nor saw. He was conscious only of the 
 fact that, had some Gregory Shilling told him these things 
 before he left home, he never would have found the cour 
 age to come away, but that now, having taken the step, 
 there was no turning back. He was not afraid that he 
 could not succeed. He believed in himself. Never for 
 a moment did he question his ability to, some day, be as 
 great as Shilling or Jarvis, it was the length of time, 
 the proportions of the fight, the long, hard road that lay 
 before him, that made him think. It was not of his work 
 or his skill that he had doubts; it was his own self, he, 
 Carey Williams, about whom he had the misgivings. 
 Could he stick it out ? Could he keep at it long enough ? 
 
46 THE AMATEUR 
 
 His mind went over the same points again and again, 
 round and round in the same circle, like a squirrel in a 
 wheel. 
 
 Presently he was aware that his head was aching, and 
 that he had not eaten anything since breakfast. A police 
 man told him where he would find a Childs restaurant; 
 but, when he reached the place, it was closed. Sick with 
 the persistent pain in his head, he turned into the St. 
 Denis Hotel and sank into one of the comfortable chairs 
 in the cafe. Then, reckless of what it would cost, he 
 ordered a sirloin steak and a pot of coffee. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE immediate problem that confronted Carey was 
 where and how cheaply he could live. Of certain 
 facts he was, fortunately, aware. One of these was that the 
 only existence possible for him was in a boarding house. 
 He had fancied, before he left home, that he might get 
 a room somewhere and take his meals in a neighbouring 
 restaurant. He had imagined how such a room would 
 look after he had "fixed it up." In the bottom of his 
 trunk he had brought the magazine posters he had been 
 at such pains to collect, and there was the pen-and-ink 
 original from Mirth, and the cartoon of Roosevelt. 
 When he could afford it, he was going to have low book 
 shelves and a window seat, with a corduroy cushion, built 
 in the room; and there was to be an open fireplace, and 
 a Morris chair and a student s lamp with a green shade. 
 But for these things, he knew he would have to wait, 
 and, for the present, he must find a boarding house where 
 he could get a room, facing north a room fair enough 
 in size so that he would not be continually colliding with 
 his drawing table, and three nourishing meals a day. 
 Eating here and there, at irregular hours, and cutting 
 down the food to save a nickel or a dime, he knew had 
 ruined stronger constitutions than his. He had Joe 
 Downer to thank for this wisdom. Joe had been through 
 the mill and had learned lessons which he had impressed 
 
 47 
 
48 THE AMATEUR 
 
 upon Carey during their talks in the weeks before the 
 boy had left home. 
 
 After breakfast at a lunch counter on the morning 
 after his interview with Gregory Shilling, Carey bought 
 the Herald and the Times and took them back to the 
 hotel. Spreading their advertising pages open on one 
 of the desks in the writing room, he proceeded to mark 
 with his pencil every item that seemed to fit his needs 
 and purse in the columns headed "Boarders Wanted." 
 He cut these out with his pocket-knife when he had 
 finished reading all the ads. and, with a dozen clippings 
 before him, selected those that looked most promising 
 and put the balance in an envelope marked "Thursday." 
 One thing he decided from the outset : he would not live 
 above Forty-second Street or below Washington Square. 
 He knew carfare would be an item, and he wanted also 
 to be as near the heart of the city as possible. He con 
 gratulated himself on the rapidity with which he had 
 grasped the lay of the city, the clearness with which he 
 saw his individual needs and what he must do at once 
 towards meeting them. He couldn t understand why 
 any one should go out as far as Harlem to live. 
 
 The first address on his list was on the West Side of 
 Gramercy Park. He was enchanted with the quietness and 
 gentility of the locality, the greenness of the trees, the 
 brilliant colouring of the flowers in the carefully kept 
 beds, the high encircling iron fence. He made up his 
 mind to put up with almost any inconvenience a board 
 ing house might present for the sake of living in such 
 a neighbourhood; but he was unprepared to make the 
 sacrifices expected of him. The one single room vacant 
 in the boarding house was little more than a closet on the 
 top floor; it had no windows; a small, square skylight 
 
THE AMATEUR 49 
 
 in the slanting ceiling formed the lid of a square hollow 
 shaft, the upper part glass, the lower wainscoting, which 
 ran through the centre of the tiny room carrying light 
 and air to the bath room on the floor below. For such 
 accommodations with board fifteen dollars a week was 
 demanded. Carey was indignant ; he felt affronted. No 
 one with any self-respect could have lived in such a room, 
 and to ask fifteen dollars for it seemed to Carey adding 
 insult to injury. 
 
 The next house he visited was on Madison Avenue. 
 There were no single rooms vacant there, and he was 
 advised to try across the street. Here he was shown 
 a hall bedroom a little larger than the closet on Gram- 
 ercy Park, the one window of which faced the rear 
 of an office building. The light was poor and the rent 
 was again fifteen dollars. Carey had made up his mind 
 that he could not pay more than ten. 
 
 His next address was on Irving Place. The house 
 was attractive and room-rent and table board were only 
 twelve dollars a week. The hall room he was shown, 
 however, was very small and the light was easterly. He 
 made a mental note that it was a possibility and told the 
 woman he would call again in the afternoon. 
 
 Certain facts were borne in upon him as he walked 
 slowly down the street. It was clear that any house on 
 streets running north and south would give him an east 
 or west light; also it was evident that boarders at the 
 beginning of summer were hard to get and that conces 
 sions might be made if he asked for them. He had been 
 told at all of the places he visited that in two or three 
 weeks there would be plenty of rooms vacant, and 
 if he would enquire again at that time, he might be better 
 suited. 
 
 He stopped on the corner and began sorting over the 
 
50 THE AMATEUR 
 
 remaining clippings in the envelope. There was no other 
 address in that locality, and, uncertainly, Carey turned 
 towards Union Square, half inclined to wait until the 
 afternoon before pursuing his quest. Glancing down 
 toward Third Avenue as he crossed Sixteenth Street, he 
 was struck with the brave and staunch loyalty with which 
 the prim little houses on both sides of the street seemed 
 to stand together, beleaguered by gigantic and encroach 
 ing office buildings, pressing upon them from every side. 
 Somehow these valiant little houses, with their bright 
 brick fronts, suddenly suggested to Carey that a boarder 
 might not be unwelcome. He might even find a private 
 family that would be glad to take him in. He slipped 
 the envelope with the clippings into his pocket and walked 
 briskly down the cross street. 
 
 The first house that looked possible bore no sign, but, 
 in the window of the one adjacent, there was a little ob 
 long placard: "Boarders." He was about to climb its 
 steps, when an old negro, in shirt sleeves and with 
 a spotty apron tied about his waist, came out in the area- 
 way and began to sweep up a litter of ashes that dirtied 
 the flagging close to the side gate. Carey glanced up at 
 the house. It was three windows wide and, counting the 
 basement, four stories high. As he stood gazing at its 
 noncommittal fagade, the door opened and a boy about 
 his own age, sleek and smartly dressed, ran lightly down 
 the steps, and went whistling up the street. There was 
 something attractive about the way he swung his shoul 
 ders from side to side to suit his rapid gait. 
 
 Carey turned to the old negro : 
 
 "Do you think the family the lady of the house, would 
 be offended if I should ask her to take me as a boarder? * 
 
 The man straightened up, and a look of suspicion came 
 into his face. He gazed at Carey, eyeing him over. 
 
THE AMATEUR 
 
 "How s dat, suh?" he said, as if he hadn t heard. 
 Carey repeated his question. 
 
 Something still puzzled the other. 
 
 "Dis is a boa din house, suh!" he answered finally. 
 "Was you lookin fo room an boa d?" 
 
 Carey nodded. 
 
 "Jes please excuse me, suh ; I ll go tell Mrs. Fillmore. 
 You jes go right up th stairs an ring th bell." He 
 disappeared hurriedly through the iron grilled gate be 
 neath the steps and presently opened the door for Carey 
 on the landing above. 
 
 "Mrs. Fillmore is not feelin ve y well, suh. Miss 
 Watt will see you. Jes step right in th parlour." 
 
 The room into which Carey was shown was half in 
 darkness in spite of the brilliant June sunshine in the 
 street. Heavy hangings at the windows and drawn 
 shades kept out the light. It was evident it was seldom 
 entered. From the centre of a very high ceiling was sus 
 pended an enormous ornate chandelier, twinkling, even 
 in the darkened room, with hundreds of dangling glass 
 prisms. Folding doors shut off the adjoining room. An 
 old-fashioned davenport was backed up against these, 
 and on one side stood a closed harmonium, balanced op 
 posite by a tall cabinet whose shelves were covered with 
 ornaments: shells, souvenir boxes, glass plates, china 
 figures, and vases of all sizes and shapes. Of the rest of 
 the room Carey got a fleeting impression of marble- 
 topped tables with more vases and books neatly arranged 
 thereon, heavily upholstered chairs with squares of lace 
 pinned carefully to their backs, and numberless pictures 
 in massive gold frames suspended from the high picture 
 moulding above them. The thing that interested him 
 most was the fact that the door from the hall a door 
 
52 THE AMATEUR 
 
 unusually wide and unusually thick was made of one 
 solid piece of mahogany. 
 
 The opportunity of investigating further was cut short, 
 for, with much rustling of skirts and ponderous tread, 
 Miss Watt descended upon him. Miss Watt was an 
 exceedingly large woman. She was not fat ; she was big 
 and very tall; "rangey" described her. She was dressed 
 in white, a shirt-waist and duck skirt, stiff with starch, 
 like those of a trained nurse. Her arms were folded, 
 the forearm bare, the fingers of each hand thrust beneath 
 the tight sleeve of the other arm. In the doorway, the 
 light behind her, she looked to Carey like an ogress in 
 Grimm s Fairy Tales; but her voice, when she spoke, 
 was pleasant, though loud and shrill. 
 
 "Did you want to look at some rooms? My sister, 
 Mrs. Fillmore, isn t well to-day. Could I show you what 
 we have? You re single, I presume?" 
 
 Although he could not distinguish her expression, as 
 she stood with her back to the hall light, Carey knew 
 that she was "beaming" at him. Her voice was enough. 
 Nothing could sound more ingratiating. 
 
 "Because," continued Miss Watt, "we only want gen 
 tlemen. Ladies are too fussy. Will you stay through the 
 summer, or do you want a room just for a few weeks? 
 We have a lovely room on the top floor. I think it s the 
 nicest room in the house, myself. . . . Won t you go 
 right up stairs? ... I tell Lizzie my sister, Mrs. Fill- 
 more that if it weren t for the stairs, I d rather have 
 that room than any other. It s the coolest in summer. 
 Charley that s Mrs. Fillmore s son says he is going 
 to sleep there this summer on hot nights, if it isn t rented. 
 . . . Whew ! these stairs do take one s wind ! 
 
 "Now, this here," Miss Watt paused on the first land 
 ing to throw open a door, "is Mr. Vernaught s room. 
 
THE AMATEUR 53 
 
 He s English and s crazy about old things antiques, you 
 know." 
 
 Carey glanced in. The room was spacious, finely pro 
 portioned. In spite of the warmth of the day, the embers 
 of a dying fire smoked in the open grate. Over the foot 
 of a wide brass bed were flung the covers. Through the 
 windows at the back, he caught sight of green leaves and 
 brilliant sunshine. 
 
 "My sister has the front room on this floor. She s 
 not well to-day. Please go right on up, I prefer to follow, 
 I come so slow. . . . Did you say you wanted a boarding 
 place for the summer, or just for a little while?" 
 
 "I m an artist," answered Carey. "I ve just come to 
 New York. I d like to find a place to stay indefinitely. 
 I ve got to have a room that faces north." 
 
 "Well, I guess we ve got just what you re looking for. 
 Excuse me a minute. I ll see if Mr. Washburn s gone 
 out." 
 
 She knocked on a door on the second landing. Some 
 body shouted, "Yes? What is it?" 
 
 "Oh, never mind, Mr. Washburn, I thought maybe you 
 were out " 
 
 The door suddenly opened and a tall, thin man with a 
 sunken, hollow face appeared on the threshold. 
 
 "What is it, Miss Watt?" 
 
 "Now, now, please excuse me, Mr. Washburn, I didn t 
 dream you were in. I was just showing this young 
 gentleman about." 
 
 "Want to come in?" Washburn flung wide the door. 
 
 "Oh, no thank you," Carey exclaimed. "Please don t 
 bother." He moved down the hall after Miss Watt. 
 She had already begun to mount the third flight. 
 
 "Mr. Durrant and Mr. Lambert have the front room 
 on that floor. I ll show you their room when we come 
 
54 THE AMATEUR 
 
 down. Miss Blanchard a friend of the family has the 
 hall bed-room next, facing the street." Her words now 
 came in gasps. She was utterly winded. "Just a mo 
 ment. ..." She waved Carey back. "I I ll be all right 
 in a minute. It s these stairs. . . . I m not not used to 
 them. I don t come up here . . . once a year. . . . 
 Now, here s your room." 
 
 She pushed back a half -opened door, and Carey, at a 
 glance, decided that it was to be his future home, pro 
 vided the rent was not impossible. It was bright 
 and a good size. There were two windows facing the 
 street ; the light was excellent. The ceiling was low, and 
 had a tilted appearance due to some odd construction of 
 the roof which he found quaint and interesting. There 
 was no fireplace but a simple marble mantel was set 
 in one wall, and there was a comfortable-looking bed 
 and a wash stand with basin and ewer. There was also 
 a Morris chair, one that might easily have been taken 
 direct from Carey s dreams. 
 
 Miss Watt, silenced through lack of breath, now found 
 her voice again and began to enlarge upon the room s 
 advantages. 
 
 "There s a lovely bath at the foot of the stairs, and 
 in winter the house is always warm and comfortable. 
 You can have a gas stove " 
 
 But Carey didn t listen. He stood at the window and 
 vacantly gazed into the street. Some of the things that 
 Gregory Shilling had said came back to him. Was this 
 the place where he could entrench himself against the 
 overwhelming odds that pressed about? Twenty-five 
 thousand artists ! Twenty-five thousand who made their 
 living by the same and only means he knew! Could he 
 create the things here that would give him a foothold ? 
 
 A sparrow lit on the window-sill and jerked its head 
 
THE AMATEUR 55 
 
 about, eyeing his shadow through the glass suspiciously. 
 
 ". . . he s an awful nice man," Miss Watt, ensconced 
 in the Morris chair, was saying. "And then, at the other 
 end of the hall is Mr. Hart. He s a salesman ; and next 
 to him is Mr. French and Mr. McNeil. They re with a 
 publishing house. They have the room corresponding to 
 this one at the back of the house. Mr. Blanchard s in 
 between. He s an old man and don t make no more noise 
 than a mouse. Doctor Floherty has the hall room next to 
 this. He s at St. Vincent s Hospital most of the time. 
 You won t be disturbed. There ain t a noisy person in 
 the house." 
 
 "And the rent of this room with board?" asked Carey. 
 He dreaded her reply. 
 
 "Ten dollars a week." And then, as an afterthought, 
 she added, "in advance." 
 
 More to disguise his jubilation than for any other rea 
 son, Carey said, mechanically: 
 
 "I m afraid that s more than I expected to pay." 
 
 Miss Watt began violently to shake her head and 
 compressed her lips firmly. Then, abruptly, she said : 
 
 "Well, if you ll stay right through the summer, I ll 
 make it nine." She smiled at him encouragingly. 
 
 Carey s answering smile was involuntary and genuine. 
 
 "Very well," he said. "When can I move in?" 
 
 "When you please." Miss Watt struggled out of the 
 low seat and got to her feet. "There s generally a de 
 posit >" she began. 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said Carey. He handed her nine dol 
 lars in bills. "I ll send my trunk over from the hotel this 
 afternoon." 
 
 Later in the day, when he arrived in front of his new 
 home, carrying his loaded suitcase, he felt that there was 
 
56 THE AMATEUR 
 
 something very pleasant and friendly about it. Already 
 he was aware of a bond between it and himself. This 
 was where he lived; this was his home. He looked up 
 at the house again, as he had when the smartly-dressed 
 youth had suddenly opened its front door and run lightly 
 down the front steps. It was modest, quiet, unpreten 
 tious and home-like. And nine dollars a week seemed too 
 marvellous to be true ! He had the same impression when 
 he set his suitcase down in his own room and, out of 
 breath, dropped luxuriously into the comfortable Morris 
 chair. This was something like ! Just what he wanted ! 
 It would serve admirably for a few months, until he 
 caught on. Then he could look round for a studio. 
 Some day he would have one, with tapestries and carved 
 furniture and tall candlesticks, and old Eschen would 
 give his promising pupils letters of introduction to Carey 
 Williams. In the meantime, his posters would make a 
 very attractive frieze around these walls, and the pen-and- 
 ink original from Mirth would look well above the marble 
 mantel, and the cartoon of Roosevelt might hang be 
 tween the windows. 
 
 He flung his suitcase upon the bed, threw back its lid, 
 and began to put his things away. 
 
 About half -past five, he heard some of the other board 
 ers come in. Two of them came running up the stairs 
 together. They were laughing, and he heard one ani 
 mated and high-pitched voice say: 
 
 "I wrote down just what he asked me to, and then 
 Miss Hibbard picks up the sheet and screams out so 
 everybody in the office could hear, That s the very thing 
 I want to know, Mac! and I began to laugh." 
 
 A closing door shut off the rest of the words, but Carey 
 
THE AMATEUR 57 
 
 could still hear the murmur of conversation and an oc 
 casional burst of laughter. 
 
 A few minutes later, there were other feet on the 
 stairs, and a man entered the hall bedroom next to his 
 and shut the door. Carey heard him moving about, 
 opening and shutting drawers, raising the window, going 
 to and fro. Below him, rose the music of a piano; the 
 touch was a professional s. Stirred by the melody, a 
 canary somewhere began to trill shrilly. The house be 
 came vibrant with the tread of feet, with noise and 
 movement. Increasingly it teemed with life, vigorous 
 and eager, throbbing to the energy that had swiftly 
 occupied it. 
 
 At half -past six, the supper bell rang. The faint tinkle 
 came struggling up through the stair-well, but it was evi 
 dently sufficient to answer its purpose. Almost simul 
 taneously, doors opened, the piano ceased, voices arose 
 in the hall, and there came the sound of descending feet 
 upon the stairs. Carey waited a little and followed. 
 
 The dining room was in the basement. Half-way 
 down, Carey could hear the raised voices, the rattle of 
 silverware and the clatter of dishes. The house was 
 filled with the hot smell of cooking. He dreaded the 
 ordeal of introductions, but he knew these were inevitable 
 and the sooner gotten over the better. He stifled the im 
 pulse to go out and eat his dinner in some restaurant, 
 and in a few minutes found himself on the last flight and 
 standing in the doorway of the brilliantly lighted, over 
 heated room. 
 
 In the centre was a large oval table, about which, 
 seated as close to one another as possible, crowded some 
 fifteen people. On the further side an empty chair indi 
 cated where the new boarder was to sit. Carey s first 
 impression was that they all seemed uncomfortable, 
 
58 THE AMATEUR 
 
 squeezing together about the table, huddling over their 
 food. Miss Watt s towering figure rose from the end of 
 the table and confronted him. And then the introduc 
 tions began. Carey nodded and smiled and muttered, 
 "Pleased to meet you," over and over. All the time he 
 was aware that the negro, who had been cleaning up the 
 area-way in the morning and was now clothed in a very 
 spotty dress suit, was standing just behind him balancing 
 three plates of soup, waiting impatiently for the formali 
 ties to be over. Presently he found himself beside his 
 own place at table, and there was a general inching of 
 chairs to allow him to squeeze between the flanking 
 diners and draw up. He did not raise his eyes until his 
 soup was finished, and then the man at his left elbow 
 said pleasantly: 
 
 "How do you like New York?" 
 
 Carey turned about to find he was sitting next to the 
 smartly-dressed youth. The other grinned at him boy 
 ishly, and Carey smiled in return. 
 
 "My name s Jerry Hart," said the smartly-dressed 
 youth. "In all the hubbub when you came in I guess you 
 didn t get many names. Old Watt s good-hearted, but 
 she s an awful fuss-button." 
 
 They spoke in carefully controlled voices; in the gen 
 eral confusion and noisy conversation that prevailed no 
 one could overhear them. 
 
 "How did you know I was a stranger here?" asked 
 Carey. 
 
 "I saw you this morning, rubbering up at the house 
 when I was going out, and you looked like a Westerner." 
 
 "I am," said Carey. 
 
 "Well, I m from California," said Jerry Hart. "I 
 don t suppose you re a native?" 
 
 "No," admitted Carey, "I ve never been as far West 
 
THE AMATEUR 59 
 
 as that. I was never out of my state till I came East." 
 
 "What do you do for a living?" 
 
 "Draw." 
 
 "Huh!" exclaimed Mr. Hart noncommittally. "I m 
 just an ordinary, common garden variety. I m a sales 
 man. I sell graphite." 
 
 "What? For pencils?" asked Carey. 
 
 "No grease." 
 
 Here their conversation was interrupted by a tall, 
 flabby- faced young man at the end of the table, who had 
 risen to carve the roast beef. 
 
 "Do you like your meat well-done or rare, Mr. Wil 
 liams?" 
 
 "And mashed potato?" beamed Miss Watt, whose seat 
 was next. She sat poised with a serving spoon full of 
 vegetable ready to slap it on the plate when it should be 
 passed to her. 
 
 A general talk began concerning an organ-grinder who 
 appeared every Saturday morning in front of the house 
 to turn the handle of a decrepit instrument which emitted 
 melodies as superannuated as itself. 
 
 "We ve been here going on ten years, and he hasn t 
 ever missed a Saturday," said an elderly woman at the 
 head of the table, who, from the fact that she so closely 
 resembled Miss Watt, Carey knew must be Mrs. Fill- 
 more. She was not as large as her sister, but older, and 
 their resemblance was intensified by the fact that they 
 dressed alike, in white, bulging shirt-waists and stiff 
 duck skirts. 
 
 "Well, now, I like the hurdy-gurdies," began some one, 
 and Carey, lost sight of in the conversation, took advan 
 tage of it to study the different people about him. 
 
 The tall, flabby-faced young man, who served at the 
 end of the table opposite Mrs. Fillmore, Carey sur- 
 
60 THE AMATEUR 
 
 mised must be the son, Charley. Miss Watt, digging her 
 long-handled serving spoon vigorously into the white 
 mound before her, sat at his right, while, on his left, a 
 thin, careworn woman, with a carefully cultivated ex 
 pression of boredom, filled a pile of chipped vegetable 
 dishes with boiled onions. It was easy to infer from 
 their careless indifference to one another that she was 
 Charley Fillmore s wife. Next to her sat an affable old 
 man addressed by the others as Mr. Blanchard. He took 
 a very active part in the talk and spoke, so Carey thought, 
 intelligently and well. It was evident that he was neither 
 a boarder nor a member of the family. t His daughter, a 
 girl of twenty-eight or nine, sat next to him. She 
 laughed, violently suppressing her mirth, at almost every 
 thing that was said, and was called "Anna" by the Fill- 
 mores. No one could have thought her pretty. Her 
 face was disfigured by a large and prominent nose that 
 curved symmetrically outward, terminating in a fat mar 
 ble-shaped knob, the nostrils being unusually long and 
 narrow. It was a man s nose, ugly and heavy ; the pow 
 der could not hide the enlarged, dark pores in the skin. 
 But there was a fresh virginal quality to her face that 
 Carey thought very attractive. Her throat, exposed by 
 a collarless shirt-waist, was round and soft, delicately 
 tinted; her hair curled prettily about her ears. Con 
 tinually she shook with silent laughter, convulsed by a 
 murmur of low asides that Jerry Hart, who sat next her, 
 whispered in her ear. 
 
 In the two young men between himself and Mrs. Fill- 
 more, Carey had no difficulty in recognising French and 
 McNeil, who occupied the room at the rear of the house 
 on the same floor as his own. French, who came first, 
 was evidently as much at a loss to know what to say 
 to Carey as Carey was to know how to begin a conversa- 
 
THE AMATEUR 61 
 
 tion with him. He showed his willingness to be friendly, 
 however, by watching out for Carey s wants, filling his 
 glass from the carafe, passing the bread and salt, offering 
 the vinegar and catsup. There was a continual inter 
 change of "Oh, thank you/ "You re welcome, I m sure," 
 between them. Carey noticed that the inside of his first 
 two fingers was darkly stained from cigarettes. French 
 was thin, but McNeil was fat too fat for so young a 
 man. Apart from mere table courtesies, French did not 
 speak at all ; McNeil as little as possible. 
 
 On the opposite side of the table were grouped the older 
 men. These were undoubtedly the boarders who supplied 
 the bulk of the revenue ; there was a quiet but unmistak 
 able concern for their welfare. 
 
 "Charley," Mrs. Fillmore s harsh voice would break 
 into the general discussion, "Mr. Vernaught, I m sure, 
 would like more of the rare." 
 
 Vernaught was the aristocrat of the company. He was 
 English, and there was a subtle air of condescension in 
 his bearing. He rarely joined in the conversation, but 
 listened in aloof silence. So far as Carey observed, the 
 only remark he made during the meal was addressed to 
 McNeil. 
 
 "How do you pronounce Lamb s Essays in this coun 
 try?" he asked. "Do you say, Essays of Eel-ia or 
 Essays of Eli-ah?" 
 
 Directly across the table from Carey sat Mr. Durrant 
 and Mr. Lambert. They occupied the room directly 
 underneath his, and it was Mr. Lambert whom he had 
 heard at the piano. He learned these things later. Dur 
 ing the first dinner, he was unable to catch either of their 
 names, but he felt fascinated by the older of the two, 
 a dark man, with untidy hair and a decided droop of 
 one of his eyelids. This was Durrant, and it was he that 
 
62 THE AMATEUR 
 
 carried on most of the talk. He spoke easily and au 
 thoritatively. Carey decided he liked him best of his 
 new acquaintances. Durrant s roommate was even 
 darker in complexion. His face was olive-hued, long and 
 oval ; his eyes warm and luminous like an Italian s. His 
 hands were long, the fingers thin and bony. Throughout 
 the meal, he played nervously with the knives, forks and 
 spoons within reach. 
 
 Washburn, who came next, Carey had already met. 
 There was something rather mysterious about his thin 
 face, with the hollows beneath the eyes and the sunken 
 cheeks. A crumb in the corner of his mouth, which per 
 sisted in remaining there, annoyed Carey and made him 
 uncomfortable; he could not keep his eyes away from it. 
 Constantly he found himself raising his napkin to wipe 
 his own mouth. 
 
 The remaining boarder was Doctor Floherty, who 
 spoke deliberately but with a warm, mellow accent. He 
 was clean shaven, with fine, regular features, and he im 
 pressed Carey with a certain quality of refinement the 
 others lacked. 
 
 With the dessert, which consisted of corn-starch pud 
 ding and black coffee, Vernaught, Lambert and Doctor 
 Floherty excused themselves and departed. Almost all 
 the men began to smoke, French rolling his cigarettes 
 from brown paper and fine-cut tobacco. Charley Fill- 
 more presented Blanchard with a cigar. There was a 
 general edging back from the table when the coffee ap 
 peared, the men easing their constrained positions, stretch 
 ing their legs. 
 
 Blanchard was speaking across the table to Durrant, 
 stirring his coffee and inhaling his cigar in long, deep 
 breaths. 
 
 "I ve lived right here in this town, sir, for fifty-seven 
 
THE AMATEUR 63 
 
 years, and never once have I ever set foot inside of 
 Central Park. Ask Annie she ll bear me out. * 
 
 Jerry Hart murmured something in Miss Blanchard s 
 ear. Carey caught the words, "bear him in," and the 
 girl uttered a sort of squeak, but managed to strangle 
 the rest of the laugh in the folds of her napkin. For sev 
 eral following minutes, Carey could see her convulsed 
 shoulders swaying backward and forward on the other 
 side of his neighbour. 
 
 Miss Watt, leaning comfortably back in her chair, her 
 large, plump hands resting on her prominent abdomen, 
 regarded the company benignly. Every once in a while, 
 Carey felt her gaze turn upon himself like the glare of a 
 calcium. 
 
 French and McNeil, having finished their second help 
 ing of cornstarch, were discussing plans for the evening. 
 
 Jerry Hart leaned over to whisper in Carey s ear: 
 
 "Why don t some one tell Washburn there s a gazelle 
 on the lawn ?" he said. 
 
 Carey turned a puzzled look at him. 
 
 "That crumb he s got there on his lip! We call it a 
 gazelle on the lawn out home. Some one ought to put 
 him wise ; it may grow there." 
 
 Here Mrs. Fillmore felt it her duty to draw Carey into 
 the conversation. 
 
 "Two members of the family you haven t seen yet, 
 Mr. Williams." 
 
 Carey wondered where they could possibly sit at meals. 
 
 "They re my grandchildren," continued Mrs. Fillmore, 
 "Charley s my son s children. You ll see them in the 
 morning. They are the prettiest little girls you ever saw, 
 Mr. Williams. Flora and Daisy s their names." 
 
 Carey smiled, but couldn t think of anything to say, 
 especially as Jerry Hart kicked him sharply on the ankle. 
 
64 THE AMATEUR 
 
 During an altercation between Durrant and Washburn 
 as to the number of weeks a certain musical show had 
 been playing at a Broadway theatre, Carey could hear 
 Miss Watt arguing the merits of a toilet soap with Char 
 ley s wife. 
 
 "It costs forty cents a cake, but it lasts four times as 
 long." 
 
 "I m sure it s been on since Washington s birthday, 
 because I took my cousin to the matinee." 
 
 "Annie pass Mr. Williams* cup. You ll have an 
 other cup of coffee, Mr. Williams? They re so tiny. 
 Do stop laughing, Annie! Mr. Hart, you must behave. 
 You ll have Annie in hysterics." 
 
 "Ever been in Central Park, Mr. Williams ? I ve lived 
 in this city fifty-seven years, sir, and I ve never set foot 
 inside it." 
 
 There was something very friendly and pleasant about 
 it all, Carey thought. Most of them might be common, 
 uncouth and even ill-bred, perhaps, but they possessed a 
 general warm-heartedness, a kindly interest and an evi 
 dent willingness to make him one of them, that was com 
 forting and cheering. 
 
 Presently, when they all rose together and went up 
 stairs, Jerry Hart stopped Carey in the front hall. 
 
 "Walk over to Fourth Avenue with me," he said, "if 
 you haven t anything better to do. I m all out of cigar 
 ettes." 
 
 "My hat s up in my room," Carey explained, "if you ll 
 wait " 
 
 "Oh, hang your bonnet," said the other pleasantly. 
 "It s just a block and a half. Nobody wears a hat in 
 
 summer." 
 
 As the two sauntered down the street together, Jerry 
 Hart began to "put Carey wise," as he expressed it, to 
 
THE AMATEUR 65 
 
 the peculiarities of their fellow boarders and the estab 
 lishment in general. 
 
 "It ain t a swell dump," he said. "But they treat you 
 pretty decently. The house belonged once to some big 
 actor or maybe it was an actress, I ve forgotten. The 
 Fillmores used to have plenty of the long green, but that 
 bum, Charley, blew it all in flyin in Wall Street. Now he 
 sits round and lets the women feed an clothe him. He s a 
 mess. Blanchard used to have some cush, too, but Char 
 ley got his hooks on it and busted the old man. Now he 
 chops the wood for the kitchen stove and Annie makes 
 the beds. She s not much of a looker, but she s got a 
 shape like a figure eight, and when it comes to work 
 she certainly is a hummer. There ain t a live one in the 
 bunch but Floherty, and he gets edged if a brewery wagon 
 passes him in the street. Durrant s all right, although 
 he s got the pip; but he certainly can play a swell little 
 game of poker. Say," Hart stopped abruptly and caught 
 Carey s arm, "do you like poker?" 
 
 "Oh, I know the game," admitted Carey, "but I like 
 bridge whist better. What s that building down there ?" 
 
 They reached the corner of Irving Place. Two blocks 
 down, a cross street was a dazzling blaze of light and 
 colour. A steady stream of people passed and repassed. 
 Electric fire signs lapped one upon another. It was like 
 a Midway a street for seekers of amusement the main 
 thoroughfare of a city en fete. On the corner, a huge, 
 dull brick building sat sphinx-like, possessing some queer 
 quality of dignity in spite of the cheap brilliancy and 
 gaudy colouring that hemmed it about. A sustained and 
 pulsing murmur, like that of a train upon a distant trestle, 
 reached Carey s ears. It was the sound of the shuffling 
 of many thousands of feet and the laughter and voices of 
 a great throng of people moving to and fro. 
 
66 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "That s the Academy of Music," said Jerry Hart, 
 pointing to the dark, silent pile upon the lower corner. 
 "They pull off some fair shows there in winter. It s shut 
 up now." 
 
 "Is that the place where Patti and Jenny Lind used 
 to sing?" asked Carey, deeply impressed. "I ve heard 
 my father speak about it." 
 
 "That s the gilded cage where the birdies used to war 
 ble," confirmed his new friend. "Why, my son," he con 
 tinued patronisingly, "you live in an eeristocratic neigh 
 bourhood, let me tell you. Up there s where the guy that 
 wrote you know Rip van Winkle lived, and round 
 the corner is Tammany Hall, and across the street from 
 that is where Sailor Sharkey hands out the booze. If you 
 buy a quart of wine, Mr. Sharkey will be glad to shake 
 your hand. Up that way is the dear old moth-eaten 
 Westminster Hotel. People used to come for miles, 
 long ago, to get their drinks set out to em on the marble 
 bar. It was the only marble bar that ever was seen. 
 The Everett House is down that way, on Union Square, 
 and it used to be the finest hotel in the city twenty-five 
 years ago. That s the German Theatre over there, and 
 right across the street is that estimable old institution 
 revered by every New Yorker alike the Consolidated 
 Gas Company." 
 
 Carey laughed. Jerry s queer, sophisticated humour 
 amused him. 
 
 "I wish we had our hats !" he exclaimed. "You know, 
 I don t know anything about this town at all. I ve only 
 been here four days. I don t even know in which direc 
 tion is the Bowery." 
 
 "Well, pin your roll to your suspenders with a strong 
 steel safety pin, and you ll learn. I m sorry I can t show 
 you the town to-night, but I ve got a date with a jinny 
 
THE AMATEUR 67 
 
 at eight sharp, and I ve shortly got to be on my way. 
 Let s chase up those cigarettes." 
 
 They crossed the street and continued on towards 
 Fourth Avenue, Jerry keeping up a continual flow of 
 conversation for the edification of his eager listener. 
 
 "Watt is all right. She s got a good heart, but she can 
 talk you deaf, dumb and blind. They all let on that the 
 house belongs to Mamma Muggins, but Watt s got a half- 
 interest, so if you re ever late with your board, see 
 Wattsey. Mamma Muggins is an old battle-axe." 
 
 "Who s Mamma Muggins?" asked Carey. 
 
 "Fillmore!" exclaimed the other. "Agnes Anastatia 
 Augusta Fillmore ! Watt s sister. The kids Charley s 
 blob- faced brats call her Mamma Muggins. Every one 
 calls her that. She s cream of tartar all right, but Charley 
 dear can help himself to as much as precious pleases 
 every time he wants to blow the boys! They row all 
 the time. We ve a pretty good bunch on that top floor. 
 McNeil and French aren t a noisy team, but Mac can tell 
 some swell yarns, and French can sling the ink, so they 
 tell me. He s got a lot of thinks in his bean. My room s 
 next to theirs the end of the hall. The Doc s the bell- 
 cow, if he lets the grape alone. I don t mind a fellow 
 gettin a souse, provided he don t make a nuisance of 
 himself to everybody else." 
 
 They stopped in front of a cigar store with pool and 
 billiard tables in the rear, bought the cigarettes, and 
 started home again. 
 
 "Which one of the fellows is Lambert?" asked Carey. 
 
 "He s the dark, Eye-talien looking gink. He s a wiz 
 on the ivories; plays the organ at a big church some- 
 wheres up in Harlem. Durrant s in the same room. 
 They ve been side-kickers ever since they were kids. 
 Vernaught gives me a pain in the left foot. He sells 
 
68 THE AMATEUR 
 
 antiques on Fifth Avenue. His second cousin was valet 
 to the Earl of Devonshire s mother s half-brother. He 
 thinks he s a damned sight too good for us Americans. 
 Hit s a beastly shame, don t-cher-know, that he s got to 
 live in a boardin ouse with a lot of rotters like us! 
 Washburn s in a carriage factory. His old man used to 
 own it, but it s going to bust on account of the automobile 
 business. I tell him he s a chump not to beat em to it 
 and make the upper part of the car you know the body 
 and sell it to the guys that make the engines. Well, 
 you ll like it here, I think. There ain t any old maids 
 fussing about with their cough syrups and knitting. You 
 can smoke in the dining-room and come home with a bun 
 on, and as long as you can crawl upstairs without waking 
 the house, nobody gives a damn." 
 
 They reached the house and found Anna Blarichard 
 and Charley Fillmore sitting on the steps in the gathering 
 dusk. 
 
 "Sparking, I see!" called Jerry Hart when they were 
 near enough. The remark, trivial as it was, was sufficient 
 to convulse the girl, and the thought flashed through 
 Carey s mind: "Is it possible she s in love with him!" 
 
 Explaining that he d be late if he didn t "get a wiggle 
 on," Jerry said good night and disappeared into the 
 house. Carey lingered a moment on the stoop. From 
 the open windows above came the sound of Lambert s 
 piano. Children were playing in the street. White, 
 shapeless forms upon the steps of the houses opposite 
 showed where the women were still sitting enjoying the 
 refreshing coolness of the early summer evening. Occa 
 sionally the sound of their voices and laughter floated 
 across the street. A belated delivery wagon rattled up 
 suddenly ; one of the boys on the front seat leaped to the 
 street, package in hand, before the horses were pulled up. 
 
THE AMATEUR 69 
 
 Carey flung his cigarette away and turned into the 
 house, calling good night to the two figures on the lower 
 steps. Slowly he began to mount the stairs. The house 
 still retained the odour of dinner. From the basement 
 rose the smell of soaking washing,, the clatter of crock 
 ery, and the raised voices of the servants, muffled by 
 closed doors. As he passed Lambert s room, he lingered, 
 compelled by the music. It was an intricate composi 
 tion with poignant melodic harmonies, built one upon 
 another, rising higher and higher, exquisitely beautiful. 
 Abruptly it ended. There followed a moment of vacant 
 silence, the brisk crackle of a newspaper and the matter- 
 of-fact tone of Durrant s voice: 
 
 "I see they re going to get the subway really going this 
 fall. That will make it easy for you, Paul." 
 
 As he climbed the last flight, Carey caught a glimpse 
 of Jerry Hart, the door of whose room was open, strug 
 gling with his dress collar. From McNeil s and French s 
 room came the pat-pat-pat-pat-pat of a typewriter, the 
 "z-ing" of the signal bell and sharp rasp of the returned 
 carriage. 
 
 Carey closed his own door behind him. Both windows 
 were wide open, and for a long time he knelt at one of 
 them, leaning out, watching the life of the street below. 
 Then he lit the single gas jet, fitted with a Welsbach 
 burner, drew up a chair to the marble-topped table, and 
 began a long letter to Joe Downer. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 CAREY S trunk was not delivered from the hotel 
 until the following morning. He enjoyed unpack 
 ing it and putting away his clothes and other belongings 
 in the closet and the drawers of the lop-sided bureau. 
 Most interested was he in examining the sample of his 
 own work which, carefully arranged in a big portfolio, 
 lay at the bottom of his trunk. Some of his larger com 
 positions and his swivel drawing table were to be sent to 
 him by express. He had written to Joe the night before, 
 asking him to ship them on to him at once. Most of the 
 contents of the portfolio were reproductions of his work. 
 Somehow, he felt that in the few days he had been in 
 New York, he had acquired a broader and more critical 
 point of view. During his wanderings about the city 
 the day after his arrival, he had come upon a book store 
 in whose window a certain magazine had a display of its 
 current issue. A number of the original drawings that 
 had been used were exhibited, and these Carey had ex 
 amined with absorbed attention. One of them was by 
 Gregory Shilling; another, an oil in full colour, by John 
 Cameron Wilson. The latter Carey had admired im 
 mensely, marvelling at the way the artist had laid his 
 colour on the canvas and the effect of the painter s bold 
 and reckless technique. He had taken a new interest, too, 
 
 70 
 
THE AMATEUR 71 
 
 in studying the covers of the magazines on the news 
 stands, and the illustrations in those that he had bought. 
 
 As he walked around the streets, he was constantly 
 seeing excellent bits of composition, or a striking face 
 that would make an admirable sketch. A glimpse of a 
 vista down a side street, the effect of silver light from 
 electrics on the foliage of trees, the glowing halos about 
 the street lamps on Fifth Avenue, the indigo-tinted 
 shadows of tall sky-scrapers at high noon, registered 
 themselves upon his mind in flying sequence. He knew 
 these impressions upon his fresh vision were invaluable. 
 He longed to make notes of them. 
 
 Never was his creative faculty more active. He was 
 all eagerness to get to work. He felt the possibilities of 
 great achievement. 
 
 After he had arranged his few possessions, hung the 
 original drawing from Mirth and the cartoon of Roose 
 velt in the places he had selected for them, he turned to 
 his own work with a strange feeling of curiosity and 
 apprehension. It impressed him as being even worse 
 than he had feared. It seemed to him now the work of 
 a boy, crude and meritless. He put it away grimly and 
 decided not to allow himself to think about it. However 
 bad it might be, it represented so much accomplished, 
 so much that had been reproduced, that had served the 
 purpose with the presumable satisfaction to those who 
 had bought it. On Monday he would set out to put it to 
 the test. He believed it was better than some of the 
 stuff in the magazines. The best he could hope was that 
 it might indicate what he was capable of doing, if only he 
 were given the chance. The Art Editors must be trained 
 critics, and it was not inconceivable that one among 
 them might perceive something in it, might recognise that 
 here was a young artist who had possibilities. 
 
72 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Friday afternoon he spent at the Metropolitan Museum 
 of Art. It was a day of the week on which admission 
 is charged, but Carey cheerfully paid the quarter of a 
 dollar and enjoyed the feeling that he was privileged 
 thereby. He also purchased a catalogue, and was among 
 the last to leave the galleries when the closing hour ar 
 rived. 
 
 He had been looking forward for years to this first 
 visit to the Metropolitan. His feeling as he left the build 
 ing was more of contempt than disappointment. It was 
 impossible to believe himself lacking in appreciation. The 
 greater part of the paintings were atrociously bad. One 
 did not need to be an expert to see this ; it was obvious 
 to the casual visitor with the slightest feeling for beauty 
 of form, colour or composition. But Carey found real 
 inspiration in the two Vermeers and the Franz Hals 
 portraits. He liked some of the Diaz landscapes and 
 the exquisite execution of the Detaille and Meissonier 
 military compositions. The Rosa Bonheur Horsefair 
 he thought was quite as absurd and badly drawn as he 
 had always considered it to be from the innumerable 
 reproductions he had seen. He believed that Frederick 
 Remington knew a great deal more about the anatomy 
 of the horse than the famous French animal painter. The 
 Jean d Arc of Bastien Le Page he found of interest 
 more from his recent reading of the Bashkirtseff journal 
 than for any particular appeal in the picture itself. It 
 was not that these paintings some of them at least 
 were not works of art worthy to find a place in such a 
 gallery. He supposed they were all very fine in their 
 way; but they seemed remote, lacking in power to make 
 him stand before them and feel the tightening of his heart 
 and the prick of tears back of his eyes, the physical effect 
 that great art whether on canvas, the printed page, or 
 
THE AMATEUR 73 
 
 the stage invariably produced upon him when, as he 
 expressed it, "it got over." The Franz Hals and the 
 Vermeers had done this; but the rest left him cold and 
 unmoved. 
 
 Perhaps what he saw that most affected him during 
 the afternoon was a group of four old men and three 
 women with their easels arranged as close together as 
 possible, crowding about the painting of The Storm, 
 by Pierre Auguste Cot, popularly known as Paul and 
 Virginia, each one making a hasty copy of it. Carey 
 watched them for a time. They were not interested in 
 each other s work; they spoke no word among them 
 selves; occasionally one of them would glance up at the 
 great glass skylight above and look anxiously at a watch. 
 Carey saw that all of them were racing with the fading 
 light. He spoke to an attendant in the gallery. 
 
 "They sell their copies to art dealers," the man ex 
 plained. "That picture is more in demand than any 
 other. There s always a lot of em copying it. Seven s 
 all that can get round it. There were three more here 
 this morning, and one of em had a scrap with that bald- 
 headed chap over there. I had to interfere. The bald- 
 headed chap was here first, so I told the other fellow to 
 go about his business." 
 
 "What do they get for their copies ? What do they sell 
 them for? " Carey asked. 
 
 "Oh, they re lucky if they get ten dollars apiece for 
 em. Some get only a couple of dollars." 
 
 "Two dollars!" cried Carey, astonished. "Why, I 
 can t believe it ! What do the dealers do with them ?" 
 
 "They sell them to different people. They frame em 
 up nice, in big gold frames, and put em in a wooden 
 box with a glass face, and they get fifty dollars, or maybe 
 
74 THE AMATEUR 
 
 seventy-five apiece for em. Saloons and hotels some 
 times order quite a number at a time." 
 
 Carey turned away sick at heart. He watched the 
 old men and women for some time, fascinated by their 
 intense faces bending ever nearer and nearer to their 
 canvases with the dimming light. They had copied this 
 picture a score of times and knew just how to mix their 
 colours, just what to leave to finish up at home, just where 
 they must give close attention to the original. The 
 thought persisted in Carey s mind : perhaps they, too, 
 planned to be great artists when they left home, young 
 men and young women, to come to New York to do big 
 things. Perhaps he would be among their number when 
 he was fifty years old, selling his copies to a local art 
 dealer for two dollars apiece ! 
 
 In the evening, he and Jerry Hart went to see The 
 Wizard of Oz at the new Majestic Theatre. They occu 
 pied gallery seats, and afterwards visited a German res 
 taurant, where Carey drank more imported beer than was 
 good for him. The next morning he spent riding on top 
 of a Fifth Avenue bus, and in the afternoon he took a 
 long walk down through the Bowery and half way across 
 the East River on the Brooklyn Bridge. 
 
 On Sunday he went to church. Anna Blanchard 
 taught a class in the Sunday School of St. George s 
 Church. She was enthusiastic about the minister, and 
 finally persuaded Carey to accompany her to eleven 
 o clock service. But he dozed through most of the ser 
 mon and was greatly disturbed for fear she noticed 
 it. If she did, she said nothing about it, and Carey soon 
 found himself mechanically repeating to her some of 
 her own phrases in praise of her idol. In the afternoon, 
 he walked out to Central Park, wandered about the 
 
THE AMATEUR 75 
 
 drives and up the Mall, hung for a long time over a 
 parapet looking down on the fountains and the lagoon, 
 on which the first hired rowboats of the season were 
 gliding here and there, the young man at the oars, invari 
 ably in his shirt sleeves, a handkerchief tied about his 
 neck, the girl in the stern with parasol carefully arranged 
 with regard to the sun, one hand carelessly trailing in the 
 water. Endless lines of carriages and motors passed 
 each other continuously along the driveway, while on the 
 walks baby buggies, standing beside the benches where 
 their attendants rested, impeded the progress of the pe 
 destrians. From the Casino, now and then came the 
 faint whine of a string orchestra in the cafe. Every 
 where rose the shrill cries of children. 
 
 Toward five o clock, Carey turned homeward. He 
 walked all the way, drinking in what he saw, absorbed 
 and fascinated. 
 
 Work began in earnest for Carey on Monday. At nine- 
 thirty in the morning, he presented himself with his 
 portfolio under his arm at the offices of the Consolidated 
 Press Syndicate, and sent in Gregory Shilling s card of 
 introduction to Mr. Sherman. He was presently told 
 that Mr. Sherman would see him in a few minutes. 
 Carey sat down on a long, wicker, cushioned seat in 
 the outer office and waited. There was something thrill 
 ing about the sharp bustle of a great magazine office on 
 a Monday morning. Office boys were continually com 
 ing and going, proofs of advertisements in their hands, 
 packages of envelopes, wire baskets full of fresh mail. 
 The wicket gate in the railing that divided the outer 
 office banged back and forth with a continual stream of 
 hurrying clerks and boys. The operator at the switch 
 board, near which Carey sat, was working with lightning 
 
76 THE AMATEUR 
 
 rapidity, pulling out plugs, inserting them, pressing the 
 ivory buttons, disentangling the cords, flipping up the 
 little brass indicators that were constantly dropping 
 down, while all the time she kept up a constant murmur. 
 
 "Cortland 7821 they re busy, Mr. Reinhardt. Who 
 do you want? Just a minute, please. This is the Con 
 solidated Press. Who do you want to speak to? That 
 was the wrong number you gave me, Central. Mr. 
 Bigelow s not in yet. I ll give you his secretary. I can t 
 get them, Mr. Evans, they don t answer." 
 
 Suddenly a large man with a heavy jaw and very black 
 moustache appeared in the doorway. His round horn 
 spectacles were pushed up on his bald forehead; in his 
 hand he held the business card of a salesman who was 
 waiting on the other side of the wicket gate. His voice 
 was thick and guttural. 
 
 "I told you, sir, that I won t have anything to do with 
 you or your people. The last two deliveries were short, 
 and I don t propose to do business with your kind of 
 firm. I don t employ girls to count envelopes. They re 
 here to address em ; not count em. You ll oblige me by 
 not coming here again." 
 
 He tore the card he held into four pieces and threw it 
 into a waste basket, and turned on his heel. The sales 
 man flushed ; he stood a moment with a glassy, unseeing 
 look in his eyes ; then slowly he faced the heavy glass door 
 behind him, swung it open, and went out. 
 
 Carey waited. With the return of every boy from the 
 inner offices, he looked up expectantly. But no one paid 
 him any attention. Presently another artist came in and 
 asked for Mr. Sherman. He carried two large canvases, 
 bound together by a shawl strap, their painted surfaces 
 held apart by wooden pegs. Almost immediately he was 
 requested to step into Mr. Sherman s office. Ten min- 
 
THE AMATEUR 77 
 
 utes later he came out, rolling up the shawl strap, casting 
 a curious glance at Carey and his portfolio. 
 
 Another half hour went by. In a lull at the switch 
 board, the operator suddenly turned round to Carey: 
 
 "Were you waiting to see Mr. Sherman ?" 
 
 Carey, startled, nodded and smiled. 
 
 "I guess he s forgotten all about you," she said. 
 
 She slipped in a plug and pressed a button. 
 
 "There s an artist out here that s been waiting an hour 
 to see you. Do you want him to come again?" She 
 turned almost immediately to Carey. "He says for you 
 to come right in. I m sorry/ she continued kindly. "You 
 were so quiet, I forgot about you, myself. I generally 
 have to jog his memory. He s all the time forgetting. 
 It s the last door on the right down that hall." 
 
 Carey presently found himself standing in the door 
 way of a small, disorderly office, the greater part of 
 which was occupied by a great roll-top desk. A row of 
 shelves along one side of the room was filled with maga 
 zines in untidy piles. On the wall beside the desk was 
 stretched a great square of green baize, to which proofs 
 of half-tones and colour reproductions were pinned. 
 Against the wall beneath it, leaned the two large can 
 vases that had just been delivered. The room was close 
 and the air was heavy with odour of strong cigars. 
 
 The man at the desk wheeled about as Carey ap 
 peared in the doorway. He held out his hand cordially : 
 
 "You must excuse me, Mr. Williams; I confess I 
 forgot you were waiting. Your card," he indicated 
 where it had been rescued from the litter on his desk, 
 "got mixed up with my papers. Monday morning," he 
 waved his hands deprecatingly, "Monday morning 
 usually is a busy time. Now, let s see you re a friend 
 of Gregory s?" 
 
78 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Sherman was middle-aged, short and heavy set. His 
 hair and beard were a sort of sandy-grizzle; his com 
 plexion slate-coloured; but his eyes were kindly and 
 twinkling. 
 
 Carey explained his chance acquaintance with the ar 
 tist. 
 
 "I see I see," continued Mr. Sherman. "Well, let s 
 take a look at your stuff. . . . Excuse me." 
 
 The telephone rang and, while Sherman was an 
 swering it, Carey untied the strings of the portfolio and 
 opened it on the table behind the Art Editor s chair. 
 
 Sherman swung round as he hung up the receiver and 
 picked up the first of Careys proofs. But, at that mo 
 ment, the large man with the fat jowl, the horn spectacles 
 still pushed up on his bald forehead, came into the room. 
 He laid a colour proof down on the desk. 
 
 "This fellow wants the earth. Wells and Farnsworth 
 just rang me up. They say Morrisey wants a change of 
 copy on all that part of our edition that goes into Canada. 
 What s it going to cost? I won t allow em a nickel! 
 I don t care if we lose the account. They want to use the 
 same plates but new text matter. We ll have to get a new 
 electro of the blue plate and stop the presses and make 
 the change! That s the composition and eight electros. 
 I ll charge em twice as much as it costs us, by God. Let 
 me know as soon as you can." 
 
 He strode out of the room. Sherman picked up Car 
 ey s proof again, gazed at it absently, and then ran 
 through the others, turning one over after another, giv 
 ing each little more than a casual glance. Twice before 
 he finished, he was interrupted. A boy came in with a 
 bill to be O. K-ed, and there was another call at the tele 
 phone. 
 
 "Let me have your name and address, please. If some- 
 
THE AMATEUR 79 
 
 thing comes along that I think will interest you, I ll drop 
 you a line." 
 
 It was a stock phrase. Carey knew Sherman used it a 
 hundred times a week. He saw that he had lost his in 
 terest and attention. He made one more attempt to re 
 gain them. 
 
 "Just how shall I go about getting an assignment, Mr. 
 Sherman? I ve only been in New York a few days. 
 How does a young fellow start in? Isn t there a right 
 way a short cut? Mr. Schilling said " 
 
 "Short cut?" Sherman interrupted. "There s no such 
 thing! All the successful men had to start in just as 
 you ve got to. Go round! Go call on the magazines 
 and the advertising agencies, and keep on going. There s 
 no other way I know of. If you re looking for short 
 cuts, young man, I d advise you to go back where you 
 came from. . . . You ll excuse me, I know. You see 
 how busy I am this morning. Come in again when 
 you ve got anything particular you d like to show. I 
 shall be glad to see it. Good morning." 
 
 Carey was out in the waiting room, in the hall, on the 
 elevator, down on the street, before he realised how 
 much he had depended on this interview. He stood at 
 the curbing, his portfolio under his arm, and wondered 
 what he should do next. He saw that he had happened 
 in at an unfortunate time, when Sherman was particu 
 larly busy, and also that his use of the words "short cut" 
 had been misunderstood. He determined he would go to 
 see Sherman again in about a week and, even if he re 
 ceived no more welcome reception, he would at least 
 correct the wrong impression he felt he had made. 
 
 He had not looked up the location of any of the maga 
 zines, but he knew where the Occident Company was. 
 He turned down toward Union Square. At the first 
 
80 THE AMATEUR 
 
 news stand he came to, he wrote down half a dozen of 
 the addresses of other periodicals. 
 
 The Occident Company for many years had occupied 
 the same quarters on the top floors of an old brick build 
 ing on the north side of the Square. It was a great 
 publishing house; its books and magazines were con 
 sidered to be the finest examples of the printer s and en 
 graver s art. There was a venerable dignity about its 
 offices of which Carey was aware while he was yet in 
 the walnut-finished, many-mirrored elevator that bumped 
 its way from side to side of the narrow shaft as it slowly 
 and shakily ascended. A great many original drawings 
 in black frames covered the high walls of the reception 
 room. A round table on which were arranged the latest 
 issues of the Occident Company s magazines, stood in the 
 middle ; chairs and settees lined three sides of the room, 
 their backs set stiffly against the walls. The fourth side 
 was given over to the accounting department; its high 
 wooden partition cut off much of the light and gave the 
 impression of having yearly encroached upon the space 
 allotted to the waiting minutes of callers, agents, visitors, 
 and applicants. This partition was pierced by three win 
 dows fitted with gates of shining brass rods and above 
 them appeared neatly-lettered brass plates: "Cashier," 
 "Bills," "Mail." Frosted panels of glass alternated with 
 these grilled windows, permitting light to come through 
 to the rest of the room, and bearing across their clouded 
 surfaces, the name : Occident Company. 
 
 Carey turned interestedly to examine the original 
 drawings. His breast rose in long breaths of admiration 
 as he studied them. Here was Art he could appreciate ! 
 They were some of the finest illustrations he had seen. 
 He was peering close at a large pastel by Herbert Archer s 
 noting the predominating long lines in the artist s 
 
THE AMATEUR 81 
 
 method of work, when the Art Editor came out from 
 behind the Accounting Department, and spoke his name, 
 giving it the inflection of an interrogation. 
 
 He was a man about sixty years of age, tall and thin, 
 with white hair and a sparse white beard ; his complexion 
 was pink like a woman s,- the cheeks shot through with 
 tiny veins of bright vermillion. His lips were red and 
 when he spoke he showed many teeth which appeared 
 to fill his mouth. His eyes behind his glasses were bright 
 and pleasant, alert and interested. He nodded invitingly 
 at Carey, winking rapidly, his teeth glistening between his 
 red lips. 
 
 It was with a manner long used to the experience, 
 however, that he picked up the artist s proofs and ran 
 through them with quick, nervous movements of his 
 hands, occasionally murmuring: "U-um," "Un-hun." 
 When he finished looking them over, he turned to Carey, 
 his red lips forming the smile that Carey knew he as 
 sumed when he dismissed the artists who failed to inter 
 est him. 
 
 "There s nothing here just in our line. We cannot use 
 this kind of work, excellent as it is. Thank you very 
 much for coming in and letting us have a look at it. 
 Good morning, Mr. Mr. er Williams good morn 
 ing." 
 
 The offices of a popular monthly were close by. Carey 
 found himself presently waiting his turn with two other 
 artists to see its Art Editor. The three of them had ar 
 rived almost simultaneously. The others were begin 
 ners like himself, but probably of less experience, ob 
 viously straight from the Art Students League. 
 
 The Art Editor was too busy to see any one just at that 
 moment. His assistant a young man about Carey s 
 own age came to them and looked at the work. They 
 
82 THE AMATEUR 
 
 opened their portfolios together, and the assistant began 
 to scrutinise each drawing and proof closely, holding it 
 to the light, squinting his eyes, examining the larger orig 
 inals through a reducing glass. Carey s proofs were in 
 spected last. The other artists left "their names and 
 addresses in case something that might interest them 
 should turn up" and departed. Carey s work took a 
 long time to be examined. He was beginning to hope 
 that the Editor was really interested. The prize poster 
 for the State Fair was the last proof in the portfolio. 
 Carey, a long time ago, had had a mat put around it; 
 the edges were bound in black tape. It had been litho 
 graphed and printed in nine colours. It represented a 
 girl, with a sun-bonnet falling back upon her shoulders, 
 gathering wild flowers in an open field, the silhouette of 
 Carey s native city in the background, the outlines of its 
 spires, towers and office buildings picked out in grey 
 against a brilliant blue sky. 
 
 The Editor studied it carefully. So far, he had made 
 no comment ; now he turned to Carey and said : 
 
 "This is an interesting colour scheme. I like it the 
 best of what you have to show. The drawing of the 
 girl s arm there is a little faulty, and I m fraid you 
 haven t done very much work for reproduction, have 
 you? It would be impossible to retain the values you 
 have in this painting if it were reproduced." 
 
 Carey looked at him perplexed. At first he thought 
 he had not understood correctly. It was impossible to 
 believe that this magazine man did not recognise a litho 
 graph proof! For a moment he was at a loss to know 
 what to say. 
 
 "This this is a reproduction !" he stammered. "The 
 original painting is at home it s in the State Capitol 
 
THE AMATEUR 83 
 
 back home. This is only a proof. It was litho 
 graphed " he stopped, confused. 
 
 The other, by a quick movement, brought the poster 
 nearer the window light and passed his fingers over its 
 surface. Carey saw the blood beginning slowly to mount 
 into his cheeks. He felt extremely sorry for him. He 
 realised at once that this young editor knew nothing of 
 either art or reproduction, and that part of his duty in 
 that office was merely to see unknown artists as they 
 came in and save his superior that annoyance. Carey, 
 at the moment, would gladly have saved him the mor 
 tification of the discovery, had he been able. 
 
 "There s a bad light there," the Editor said. "I see 
 you re right. I thought it was an oil painting." He be 
 gan to laugh nervously. 
 
 "Oh, that s an easy mistake to make," Carey hastened 
 to say. "The reproduction s better than the original. 
 The colours are more evenly laid in the proof. Of course 
 I like process work better for this kind of thing." 
 
 "We only use four-colour reproduction here," the other 
 began, hesitatingly. 
 
 Carey looked at him curiously, almost hopelessly. 
 There was, he saw at a glance, no need of his wasting 
 more of this man s time or of his own. It was like try 
 ing to carry on a conversation in Latin with a Lap 
 lander. 
 
 But how could the Art Editor or the Editor-in-Chief 
 of that magazine afford to take such chances? Carey 
 asked himself as he walked angrily down the street a few 
 minutes later. A genius might some day drop in, proofs 
 in hand, asking for a manuscript to illustrate. Was it 
 reasonable to suppose that this college youth, who didn t 
 know that four-colour reproduction was identical with 
 process work, could recognise the earmarks of the genius? 
 
84 THE AMATEUR 
 
 How many a great artist s earliest work was crude and 
 all but hopeless ? Some one must have recognised his pos 
 sibilities and given him a chance, some one with a trained 
 eye; not this Bachelor of Arts who had picked up a few 
 phrases like "values" and "four-colour work" and used 
 them glibly to cover up his ignorance! How was he to 
 tell Carey or any one -that this arm was faulty or that 
 drawing bad ! The Art Editor, if he did his work with 
 anything approaching to adequacy, must know that this 
 individual, whom he sent out to represent himself and his 
 magazine, knew nothing about Art. Much better would 
 it be to send word that he was busy and callers must 
 come again. It was the unfairness to artists that most 
 incensed Carey. Those students from the Art League 
 might have some very promising stuff. They were turned 
 away, allowed to believe that it was not good enough to 
 awaken the slightest interest at least in the Assistant 
 Art Editor of one of the most successful and influential 
 monthlies. If all the magazines did that: the beginner 
 would never be given a chance. Carey s jaw stiffened, 
 and in his mind s eye he saw the day when that particu 
 lar magazine would beg him to illustrate its next serial ! 
 When he got back to the boarding house, lunch was 
 almost over. Carey ate it in silence, refusing to allow 
 his mind to dwell on the disappointments of the morning. 
 He lay down on the bed in his room afterwards, and in 
 a few moments was fast asleep. When he awoke it was 
 nearly four o clock. 
 
 The next day he started out again. He planned his 
 itinerary with greater care. Starting in at Forty-second 
 Street, he worked down town. In the course of the day 
 he visited eleven magazine offices. At not one of them 
 did he get the least encouragement. 
 
THE AMATEUR 85 
 
 He found the men who saw him twice women looked 
 at his proofs of varying types. In the office of Over 
 man s Magazine, the Art Editor was brusque to the point 
 of rudeness. When Carey was shown into his office, he 
 was busy writing. He threw him a brief glance and said 
 over his shoulder: 
 
 "Stick your proofs around the room anywhere, so I 
 can see em." 
 
 Carey arranged them to the best advantage possible, 
 propping them against the books on the desk, on the top 
 of the radiator, and slipping them into the crack between 
 the wainscoting and the wall. The Art Editor did not 
 look up until the letter he was writing was completed and 
 thrust into an envelope. Then, as he licked the flap, he 
 whirled about and, after running his eye over a few of 
 the proofs, said: 
 
 "We can t use stuff like that. Buy a copy of Over 
 man s Magazine and study the pictures. And don t come 
 again unless you re sure we ll be interested." 
 
 Carey also met the ultra-refined, elegantly attired Art 
 Editor of East and West, with immaculate linen and ex 
 quisite manner, who, after examining his work rather 
 casually, said : "Not interested," and, turning, passed 
 through the swing door to the inner offices, leaving Carey 
 humiliated and raging. 
 
 Even when courteously treated, he was conscious that 
 the time it took to look at what he had to show was 
 begrudged. Perhaps the most interesting call was at the 
 office of Stapleton s. The Art Editor was the dean of 
 his profession in the publishing business. Carey had 
 heard of Ben Mercy ever since he went to Art School. 
 No one could have been more friendly and pleasant, al 
 though Carey could see he was not interested in his work. 
 He did not even ask him to leave his address : but for this 
 
 
86 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Carey was grateful. Most of the visit was taken up in a 
 discussion of a painting that had just been delivered by 
 the well-known marine artist, Henry Reuter. It was a 
 large canvas, and rested on the floor and against a table 
 close to Ben Mercy s large glass-topped desk. The pic 
 ture represented a great battleship standing in the teeth 
 of a fierce storm. The colour was all dull blues and greys 
 and muddy greens; most of it had been laid on with a 
 palette knife. The whole composition was intensely 
 dramatic, the effects astonishingly obtained. Ben Mercy 
 was amused at Carey s enthusiasm. 
 
 The pleasant warmth of this visit stayed with Carey 
 all day. It kept him cheered and undismayed through the 
 long succession of disappointments. His round ended 
 at the offices of Mirth, where he was told he might leave 
 his proofs for the Art Editor to look over, but it was 
 against the rules of this individual ever to meet personally 
 those soliciting work. Carey left his portfolio and called 
 for it again the following morning, when it was handed 
 over to him "with the thanks of the Art Editor for the 
 privilege of seeing it." 
 
 The next day was as unfruitful as the preceding two. 
 Carey directed most of his efforts, on this third attempt, 
 to the publishing houses. But they were even more dis 
 couraging than the magazines had been. He was kept 
 waiting for endless lengths of time by the individuals 
 who gave out the books to be illustrated, and in two cases 
 out of three he was told that there was nothing on hand 
 just at the moment and that there was very little work 
 to be given out at that time of the year. 
 
 His next attempt was made in the direction of the 
 Advertising Agencies. Jerry Hart had a cousin who was 
 a copy writer at the Frank Peabody Company. Carey 
 went to see him and got a list of the Agencies and the 
 
THE AMATEUR 87 
 
 right men to ask for. He saw that he must apply the 
 same tactics with the magazines. To ask simply for "the 
 Art Editor" was to proclaim oneself a novice and a tyro. 
 To enquire for the Art Editor by name was more dig 
 nified and commanded attention. 
 
 He was not sure whether he imagined it, or whether 
 he was becoming hardened to the business of soliciting 
 work, but it seemed to him that the Art Managers of the 
 Advertising Agencies were pleasanter and more courte 
 ous than the Art Editors of the magazines. Certainly 
 they knew their business better. Without exception, they 
 took his name and address and took it in a way that 
 impressed Carey that some day they might actually have 
 recourse to it. Also they asked him to call again, and 
 their invitations sounded sincere. But, with equal una 
 nimity, they told him that this was the dullest time of 
 the year and there was practically no work that their 
 own staff of artists could not handle. 
 
 On the last day of the week, Saturday, a little before 
 one o clock, Carey stumbled into the offices of Marks and 
 Heineman, one of the smaller advertising agencies. He 
 was told the Advertising Manager would see him im 
 mediately. He found him, a little, short, nervous, wild- 
 eyed young Jew, surrounded by three of his staff, his 
 desk and room a bewildering confusion of disorder. 
 
 They were all waiting impatiently for Carey s entrance. 
 He had no sooner stepped into the doorway than the little 
 Jew began to shout to him : 
 
 "Say yer re an artist? Yer ev draw flowers? See 
 here. Yer see that layout; I must have a pen and ink 
 drawing of those flowers and roses by Monday nine 
 o clock. Yer understand what s wanted? Copy that 
 photograph and the cover of this florist s catalogue so. 
 I ve made this sketch the way I want em. Put the roses 
 
88 THE AMATEUR 
 
 up in the corner and the rest down below ; the type goes 
 in here. D yer think yer c do it? Yer ve done work 
 like that before ?" 
 
 Carey took up the rough pencil sketch, glanced at the 
 catalogue and photograph and nodded. 
 
 "Well yer have the drawing here Monday morning 
 nine o clock. What s yer name? Write it down here, 
 and yer address. If yer work s good, I ll have more 
 for yer." 
 
 On his way home, Carey was amused by the thought 
 that his first commission in New York had been given 
 him, not on the strength of his work samples of which 
 he had not even been asked to show but on his having 
 opportunely dropped in at that particular office at a mo 
 ment when the Art Manager was at a loss to know 
 how he was going to get a pen-and-ink drawing executed 
 over Sunday! 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 AREY delivered the drawing of the flowers at nine 
 o clock the following Monday morning. The 
 young Jew was in a much less agitated state of mind. 
 He made no comment, either regarding Carey s prompt 
 ness or the quality of the sketch. He glanced at it, 
 marked the size of the reduction, and wrote with a thick 
 blue pencil at the bottom of the card : "Cut due at 3 
 p. m." He called a boy and instructed him to "hustle it 
 over to the engravers." Then he drew a voucher for five 
 dollars, handed it to Carey with the information that he 
 could get his money at the cashier s window on his way 
 out, and turned to other work as though the incident was 
 finished. But Carey lingered, and presently the other 
 looked up. 
 
 "You said there might be other work?" Carey began. 
 
 "Oh hum!" The Jew began to rub his chin reflec 
 tively. "Got any yer stuff with yer?" he asked. 
 
 Carey explained that he had brought it on Saturday, 
 but that no one had asked to see it, and he had presumed 
 that it wasn t of interest. 
 
 The Jew continued to rub his chin. 
 
 "C n yer do monograms?" he asked. "Here, I tell yer 
 what to do." He caught up a blank envelope and wrote 
 
 89 
 
90 THE AMATEUR 
 
 down several letters of the alphabet, drawing circles 
 about groups of twos and threes of them. 
 
 "Yer come to-morrow morning an show me what kind 
 of monograms yer c make out of em. They re for cig 
 arettes yer understand? Got ter be snappy and smart 
 but neat. If yer re any good I ll give yer a job. 
 Come to-morrow, before ten o clock." 
 
 There were nine monograms to be made. Carey 
 worked on them all day, and made nearly three times that 
 number, working out several arrangements of the same 
 groups. He wondered, as he bent over his drawing 
 board, at his point of view which had so changed in less 
 than a week s time. A few days ago, he would have 
 sneered at any one suggesting his doing such trivial work 
 as designing monograms. Now he was glad of the 
 chance. New York had made the difference. He knew 
 it wasn t himself, or the men he had called upon, or his 
 lack of experience or ability. It was the grip of the City. 
 The Thing that roared and swirled about him the Thing 
 of which he had the temerity to wish to become a part 
 reached first at such as he to fling aside, to trample under 
 foot. Carey saw, however, that, in his very ability to rec 
 ognise that it was the relentless and remorseless City it 
 self that he fought and not the individual men and im 
 mediate conditions that met and confronted him, lay his 
 hope of eventually winning success and controlling the 
 great force that now was so eager to destroy him. These 
 men were the City s creatures. It made them what they 
 were. In that brief flash of clear seeing, Carey found the 
 courage and the strength that carried him through that 
 first hot, baking summer and through the years that fol 
 lowed. Not until he was an older man did he come to see 
 that this same idea was the key to the understanding of 
 all life. 
 
THE AMATEUR 91 
 
 Carey was put on the regular pay roll of Marks and 
 Heineman at fifteen dollars a week. For this he was ex 
 pected to design from ten to twenty monograms a day. 
 It was hard work at first ; but, at the end of a month, he 
 grew astonishingly proficient in their execution, and 
 often did his work in the evening after he had spent the 
 day idling with Jerry Hart. With the feeling a perma 
 nent income gave him, Carey allowed what remained of 
 Joe Downer s two-hundred-dollar loan to slip through his 
 fingers in trifling extravagancies, until it was entirely dis 
 sipated. This did not worry him, as he knew Joe wasn t 
 in need of it and had lent him the money on the under 
 standing that two years might elapse before it was repaid. 
 
 His first summer in New York was a great enjoyment 
 to Carey. He settled down to a routine that involved 
 nothing exacting or distasteful. Marks and Heineman 
 were entirely satisfied with his monograms. Only once 
 was he requested to make one of his designs over again. 
 Ackerman, the young Jew who was in charge of the Art 
 Department, became friendly with Carey, but it never 
 occurred to him to suggest another kind of work. After 
 a few weeks, Carey began to mail his designs in to the 
 Advertising Agency and to receive his orders by mail in 
 return. Every Monday morning the post brought him 
 his check for fifteen dollars, and after Mrs. Fillmore had 
 claimed her due, this left a sufficiently small balance to 
 make the spending of it an interesting and exhilarating 
 weekly experience. 
 
 Carey s amusements were not of a vicious order. 
 Women played no part in his scheme of pleasure. Even 
 if his income had permitted it, he was singularly clean- 
 minded, though he had no particular moral convictions 
 on such matters. Occasionally he and Jerry Hart dropped 
 in at the famous dance-hall, the Haymarket, late in the 
 
92 THE AMATEUR 
 
 evening, for the sheer social pleasure of talking to girls 
 of approximately their own ages. They danced with 
 those they found there and bought them drinks. Some 
 times Carey came home alone, but not often. 
 
 Coney Island was the place they frequented most. Al 
 most every day that Jerry Hart could steal from his 
 work, without his employers knowing it, found the two 
 of them at the Bridge scrambling on board a train marked 
 for Coney Island. Immediately upon arriving there was 
 a rush to get into bathing suits ; and then followed long 
 hours upon the hot sands, smoking cigarettes preserved 
 in a tin candy box they carried with them from the bath 
 house, meeting confidence with confidence, maintaining 
 a keen rivalry in the darkening tan on arms and legs. 
 Neither of them could swim, but they both loved the 
 water and enjoyed ball playing and sprints along the wet 
 sand. Invariably they ate too many peanuts and pop 
 corn crisps, and came home on the crowded, hot, glaring 
 trains, utterly fatigued and with a heavy sense of out 
 raged digestions. 
 
 With French and McNeil, Carey found much diversion 
 in protracted arguments on such subjects as college edu 
 cation, Tammany, a sermon by Dr. Parkhurst, women s 
 fashions, intemperance, marriage, football, Roosevelt, the 
 newly-opened subway, any topic that might, in an idle 
 conversation, be casually mentioned. Often, after din 
 ner, Carey would turn into their room as they reached 
 the top landing together, and drop into one of the Mor 
 ris chairs with the intention of staying just long enough 
 to finish his cigarette. His monograms for the day might 
 be but half completed, and idling then would mean work 
 ing late into the night or rising early in the morning. 
 But ten o clock would find French sprawled diagonally 
 on the bed, waving his cigarette at the ceiling and vehe- 
 
THE AMATEUR 93 
 
 mently asserting that Henry George s ideas of taxation 
 were the only tenable ones that "a sane, intelligent, think 
 ing man could possibly entertain." McNeil was the arbi 
 ter in these discussions. He sat in the other Morris 
 chair by the open window, puffing placidly on a strongly- 
 smelling black briar, maintaining a noncommittal atti 
 tude, gratified and pleased when the others deferred to 
 him. Carey felt himself often beyond his depth in these 
 discussions, for French was an astonishingly well-in 
 formed person, had read generously, and had thought 
 about the things he read. He had an irritating, dogmatic 
 way of expressing himself, and Carey would be drawn 
 into an argument with him, annoyed by the finality of his 
 tone. It was all very pleasant and stimulating, and Carey 
 grew to look forward to these talks. 
 
 Repeatedly, in the middle of their argument, Jerry 
 Hart would burst into the room with the information 
 that they were missing something. This was always the 
 signal to turn out the light hastily and gather at the 
 window to spy upon some unconscious female in one of 
 the houses that abutted on the rear, during the process, 
 leisurely pursued, of going to bed. Presently, if he were 
 in, Doctor Floherty would be summoned, and Jerry 
 would stamp upon the floor to attract the attention of 
 Washburn in the room below. These observations never 
 resulted in any satisfaction to the observers, for the 
 shade was either discreetly drawn or the light prema 
 turely extinguished. 
 
 Carey was always annoyed at these interruptions. He 
 called Jerry a "Peeping Tom," and asserted that the spy 
 ing was a senseless and useless waste of time. He as 
 sumed an attitude of indifference and refused to be a 
 party to the others unworthy curiosity ; but an exclama 
 tion from Jerry or a general laugh at some amusing ac- 
 
94 THE AMATEUR 
 
 tion on the part of the unconsciously observed always 
 drew him to the window eventually. 
 
 With "Doc" Floherty and Durrant, and sometimes 
 Jerry Hart, Carey frequently went out to Van Cort- 
 landt Park to play golf. He and Jerry were beginners at 
 the game; but Carey enjoyed the exercise and the good 
 fellowship, although he never achieved sufficient pro 
 ficiency to feel the fascination necessary to becoming a 
 good player. 
 
 On the night preceding such a trip to Van Cortlandt 
 Park, Mrs. Fillmore would leave a pile of bread-and- 
 butter sandwiches and a large bowl of peanuts in the 
 middle of the dining-room table and a quart of cold 
 mixed coffee in the ice chest. At a little after five the 
 next morning, three, or sometimes four, shadowy shapes 
 groped their way down the stairs, still stiff and yawning, 
 and Durrant, who assumed the management and direc 
 tion of these expeditions, would reclaim the quart of 
 coffee from its cold storage and heat it up in a sauce 
 pan over the gas stove. Carey always remembered these 
 mornings. At that hour he bitterly regretted having 
 agreed to be a member of the party. Durrant was 
 usually cross and silent. Jerry, angry at having been 
 dragged forcibly from his bed, cursed himself and the 
 others individually and collectively. "Doc" Floherty, 
 who had risen half an hour earlier than the rest for his 
 cold bath, was irritatingly brisk and buoyant. The bread 
 of the sandwiches, grown stale in the night, had begun to 
 harden and curl at the edges, and, when the gas in the 
 kitchen was lit, an army of black water bugs and cock 
 roaches scuttled for the cracks and chinks in the floor 
 and wainscoting. 
 
 Half an hour later, on the elevated train, their spirits 
 
THE AMATEUR 95 
 
 would rise, and the Doctor usually started them all laugh 
 ing with an imitation of Durrant s scowl and muttering 
 as he tinkered with the gas stove, persuading it to burn 
 properly, while Jerry and Carey quarrelled over the sand 
 wiches and peanuts in the dining room. At One Hun 
 dred and Fifty-fifth Street, they caught the train that left 
 for Yonkers at six- thirty the first train out of a Sunday 
 morning and by seven o clock they were teeing off for 
 the first hole, the course rolling out below them, dew 
 sparkling on the cobweb-covered grass, the birds deliri 
 ously singing, the sun warm and pleasant, the whole 
 world verdant and enchanting. 
 
 Toward ten o clock, the course became congested with 
 the golfers that arrived every half hour by the train- 
 load; but, on the first round of eighteen holes, Carey and 
 his friends practically had the course to themselves, play 
 ing ahead of the rest. 
 
 There was a certain moment on these days that Carey 
 always afterward remembered with a sigh of satisfac 
 tion. Just across the road from the eighteenth hole there 
 was a little sodawater and dairy establishment where one 
 could drink glass after glass of the most refreshing and 
 delicious milk. After he had put down the numeral 7 or 
 8 on his score card and added up the eighteen entries to 
 gaze ruefully at the distressing total, there would come 
 suddenly a realisation of how hot and tired he was. 
 Then it was that the thought of that wonderful milk 
 awaiting him in the little dairy gave him a delicious 
 promise of refreshment. He never forgot the anticipa 
 tion of these moments, or the wonderful feeling of satis 
 faction that followed them. On the high turn-stools 
 against the counter, Durrant and the Doc discussed the 
 latter s successful mid-iron shot to the sixth green, or 
 the former s difficulties in the brook between the tenth 
 
96 THE AMATEUR 
 
 and eleventh holes, while Jerry idly flirted with the girl 
 behind the counter and Carey drank one glass of milk 
 after another. 
 
 They were happy days, free from responsibility, lulling 
 the desire for achievement. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 WITH the early fall, a subtle change in the character 
 of the city became evident to Carey. As he ex 
 pressed it one evening at the dinner table, "things seemed 
 to have begun to hum." Blanchard pushed back his chair 
 and lit the cigar he had begged from Durrant. 
 
 "Young man," he said, "what you observe is the return 
 of the people. In June the annual hegira begins the 
 exodus to the country. In September the populace re 
 turns to its home. The week prior to the opening of 
 the public schools, three hundred thousand people enter 
 New York City daily ..." 
 
 "Come, come, Blanchard," interrupted Doctor Flo- 
 herty, "that would mean over two million people coming 
 back to the city during that week. The transportation 
 facilities here could not possibly handle that number." 
 
 "Well, sir, you may be an authority on serums and 
 bacilli, but I have lived in this town for nigh onto sixty 
 years." 
 
 A long argument followed, which eventually involved 
 both Charley Fillmore and Durrant, and when Carey and 
 Jerry Hart slipped away upstairs, the raised voices fol 
 lowed them to the top floor. 
 
 But Carey recognised that the town was filling up, no 
 matter what the rate per day might be. The sidewalks 
 
 97 
 
98 THE AMATEUR 
 
 were more crowded, the traffic in the streets was more 
 congested. Somehow, a look of eagerness, of wary ex 
 pectation, came into the faces of the people one passed 
 upon the streets. Men and women alike seemed to be 
 preparing themselves for the struggle of the winter be 
 fore them. 
 
 The boy was so impressed with this idea that he de 
 cided to draw a cartoon about it. He intended to call it 
 The Rush and Bustle of the City s Mart. He worked 
 feverishly for two days, and then, because a woman s 
 figure in the foreground would not come right, suddenly 
 lost interest and turned its face to the wall with other 
 unfinished work. 
 
 A pastel sketch of Jerry Hart he attempted one even 
 ing, however, proved more successful. It did not take 
 him over an hour to finish, and he felt when it was com 
 pleted that he really had done an excellent bit of draw 
 ing. He had caught Jerry s whimsical smile and the hint 
 of fun in his eyes, and the work itself was free, devoid 
 of that rigidity and tightness which he knew was his 
 greatest weakness. 
 
 He tried to make a sketch of himself after this. A 
 combination of mirrors secured for him a half profile of 
 his own face, but the result was not good. He failed to 
 catch an expression, and the fairness of his hair and his 
 high colouring escaped him altogether. 
 
 He went back to his monograms, fiercely assuring him 
 self that his chance would come some day and he d "show 
 em." But he did not fool himself entirely by his blus 
 tering. Deep down in his own consciousness there lurked 
 an uneasy conviction of shirking. His work assured him 
 of bed and board, but Carey had not come to New York 
 to make monograms for Marks and Heineman. That 
 should have been only a makeshift, a temporary compro- 
 
THE AMATEUR 99 
 
 mise. In his heart he knew he was drifting with what 
 ever current beset him. 
 
 The opening of the theatres with the fall and winter 
 offerings proved a source of absorbing interest to both 
 himself and Jerry. They made it a point to go on first 
 nights, and, later, over their beer at Scheffcl Hall, dis 
 cussed the players and the play. The full page of theat 
 rical advertisements in the Sunday Herald was pored 
 over at the breakfast table and long afterwards. They 
 prided themselves on their familiarity with theatrical 
 terms and the glibness with which these could be used. 
 
 "Faversham s going to open in Letty next week at 
 Wallack s. I hear it s a pippin. Let s go," Carey would 
 say, glancing up from his page of ads. 
 
 "Right," Jerry would assent. "Frank Daniel s got a 
 new show, I see, Sergeant Blue. That girl Blanch Ring 
 is in it. She s the one that sings In the Good Old Summer 
 Time. She can hang her hat up in my house any time 
 she likes." 
 
 "Oh, for God s sake!" Carey would exclaim, "shut up. 
 You give me a pain. . . . I m crazy to see this Letty 
 show. It s by Pinero, you know. I saw a play by him 
 once that was the greatest thing I ve ever seen in my 
 life. It s called The Gay Lord Quex. There s a girl in 
 it who . . ." 
 
 Jerry, at this point, would fling aside his paper and, 
 assuming an attitude of devotion, begin : 
 
 "From all inordinate and obnoxious bores, from all 
 vainglorious and conceited asses, from all recounters of 
 dramatic plots, good Lord deliver us." 
 
 "Well, don t you begin talking about favourites of the 
 stage falling hopeless victims to your irresistible charms," 
 Carey would rejoin. "There s no prig worse than that. 
 What ll we do this afternoon?" 
 
ioo THE AMATEUR 
 
 Later in October, just as the trees had begun to take 
 on their most vivid foliage, the two boys went with the 
 Fillmores and Anna Blanchard on an excursion up the 
 Hudson. The affair was arranged by a Sunday School 
 Association to which Anna belonged. One of the largest 
 of the river steamers had been chartered, and every 
 Episcopal Sunday School in the city sent its delegation. 
 
 Carey, who was anxious to satisfy his artist s soul 
 with a view of the Palisades in the autumn, of which he 
 had heard since infancy, was somewhat surprised at 
 Jerry s ready compliance with the suggestion from Anna 
 Blanchard that they should come along. Jerry studi 
 ously avoided any social intercourse with the Fillmores 
 and Carey aped his attitude; but, in his heart, he had 
 a genuine liking for them all, with the possible exception 
 of Charley, whose frankly acknowledged indifference to 
 his mother s efforts to support himself, his wife and chil 
 dren aroused Carey to intense exasperation. He was, 
 consequently, greatly relieved when Charley failed to 
 meet them at the Battery early on the morning of the 
 excursion. Charley had announced that he would not 
 be home the night before, but had promised to meet the 
 family at half-past eight the following morning. Carey 
 hadn t a doubt that, somewhere, he was sleeping off a 
 jag acquired during the evening s debauch. 
 
 There were nine in the party : Mrs. Fillmore and Miss 
 Watt, bulging and gigantic, with hats and veils; Mrs. 
 Charley Fillmore, with her usual sad and tearful expres 
 sion, one of her scrawny, straight-haired little girls 
 grasped in either hand ; old Blanchard maintaining a con 
 stant flow of comment to whomever would listen; his 
 daughter and the two boys. 
 
 Anna Blanchard wore a yellow satin badge with long 
 silky fringe, which proclaimed her to be a "Delegate of 
 
THE AMATEUR 101 
 
 St. George s Sunday School Teachers Association." 
 Carey, catching a glimpse of her face as she was talking 
 to Jerry by the boat rail, thought her,, for the first time, 
 pretty. One grew accustomed :o ht*r .disfiguring nose; 
 it ceased to be noticeable. -Her constant eager expres 
 sion, her merry eyes, her readiness- to laugh, mack: ior a 
 certain likableness in her face that gave it beauty. She 
 had a new hat trimmed with daisies, and her hair curled 
 prettily about her face, flushed with the excitement of 
 the moment. Her girlish figure was both lithe and 
 graceful. 
 
 The Narragansett seemed crowded to its capacity. 
 The day was the last of a late Indian summer, and the 
 white clothes of hot weather were once more called into 
 service. Everywhere white shirt waists and white skirts 
 brightened the decks of the old river-boat. Children 
 wormed their way between their elders, calling to each 
 other, running in the occasional vacant places on the deck, 
 colliding with the groups that formed and dissolved and 
 formed again. Forward, a great quantity of folding can 
 vas stools had been piled. A mad scramble was in prog 
 ress about these, the men struggling among themselves 
 to secure a sufficient number for the needs of their parties. 
 Every now and then, a man would pass along the 
 crowded deck, three or four of these stools hooked by 
 each arm, crying, "Excuse me, please kindly let me by, 
 please. Gangway !" 
 
 There was a general confusion among the passengers 
 to secure the desirable positions on board. Almost all the 
 women carried packages and bundles, and many held 
 nursing bottles in their hands, wrapped in strips of flan 
 nel to keep the milk warm. The day promised later to be 
 hot; but, at that hour in the morning, there prevailed a 
 soft haze over both land and water. The sun shone 
 
102 THE AMATEUR 
 
 murkily through this, a flat disc of fire-colour just over 
 the grey shadows of the factories and office buildings of 
 Brooklyn. - The. gojcj .and brown of the leaves on the 
 trees in /Battery XPacrk aye encouraging promise of the 
 glories :qf.4he . Palisades.. - * % 
 
 Suddenly- the* air was* split with the raucous snarl of 
 the Narragansett s whistle. At once there arose from 
 many throats cries and shouts. "Here we go! We re 
 off! All ashore that s going ashore! Hurry! Good 
 bye, all! There she blows! Don t you wish it was 
 Europe ?" 
 
 Simultaneously, a brass band in the stern burst out 
 with a blare of horns and a crash of cymbals and drums. 
 
 Carey, from where he hung over the rail with Jerry, 
 looked down on the group of people standing below on 
 the deck, heard a bell somewhere, deep inside the old 
 steamer. Immediately, a fine tremor of the rail tickled the 
 palm of his hand where it rested upon it. Slowly the 
 Narragansett got under way, her nose swinging out into 
 the stream, while hawsers still held her stern to the dock. 
 Presently these were cast off and the shore began rap 
 idly to recede, shrinking back upon itself; the outline of 
 the city became more definite, fitting itself into the pic 
 tures and photographs Carey had so often seen of "New 
 York s sky line." 
 
 Anna came up to them. She was radiant ; from sheer 
 exuberance of spirits, she was suddenly seized with one 
 of her fits of silent laughter, holding her handkerchief to 
 her eyes, her back and shoulders shaking convulsively. 
 
 "Got the pip?" Jerry asked, unconcernedly. Anna s 
 increased contortions bore evidence to her appreciation 
 of his humour. Presently she was able to control herself, 
 wiping the tears from her eyes, leaning her elbows upon 
 the rail. 
 
THE AMATEUR 103 
 
 "You always make me laugh, Mr. Hart," she said. "I 
 don t know how it is. The things you say ! I sometimes 
 wake up in the night and get laughing like anything, just 
 remembering what you ve said." 
 
 "You d make a hit on the stage," said Carey, "if you 
 only could get a nightly audience with Miss Blanchard s 
 appreciation." 
 
 "That s just what I say!" exclaimed Anna. "I was 
 saying just that same thing to Mamma Muggins last 
 night. I said Mr. Hart would make a great hit on the 
 stage." 
 
 "Aw, forget it !" said Jerry, embarrassed by the girl s 
 earnestness. "My line s selling graphite, which same 
 edifying occupation I ought to be doing right this min 
 ute!" 
 
 "Oh, now, Mr. Hart!" expostulated Anna. "Surely 
 they can spare you one Saturday morning. I m so glad 
 you both could come." 
 
 There was a silence. The three leaned on the rail, 
 watching the city slip past them. Carey recalled his first 
 impression of New York, from almost that same point 
 of view : a confused tangle of black shadows piled one 
 upon another; a crouching monster, silent, menacing, 
 awaiting its prey. His resolve not to be a quitter, to 
 achieve success, to win preferment, not to be devoured 
 by the monster, came back to him with no pleasing sense 
 of having stuck to his determination. That morning was 
 the first on which Marks and Heineman would fail to 
 receive their monograms from him. He had fallen asleep 
 over his work the night before and, rising early, had had 
 only half the number finished by breakfast time. Jerry s 
 suggestion that he send word that he was sick seemed to 
 solve the problem so efficiently and so pleasantly that he 
 had grasped it and sent a note by a messenger written 
 
104 THE AMATEUR 
 
 in pencil to convey the impression of having been writ 
 ten in bed. Five months had slipped by, and he had 
 so far failed to make the slightest headway toward real 
 ising any of the ambitions that had been his back home. 
 "You dance, don t you, Mr. Williams ?" Anna Blanch- 
 ard was speaking to him. "We re going to have some 
 dancing later on, and there s a girl here I want you to 
 meet. She s one of our teachers. I know you ll like her. 
 . . . I ll have to go now. Dr. Hammersmith may be 
 needing me. See you later." 
 
 The Narragansett was passing the Soldiers and Sail 
 ors Monument. Carey gazed at it, struck with admira 
 tion, resolving to make a sketch of it on his first free 
 morning. 
 
 Presently the steamer began to manoeuvre for its land 
 ing at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. A crowd, 
 almost as large as the one that had boarded the steamer 
 at the Battery, waited for the Narragansett to dock. 
 Carey could hardly believe it possible that so many more 
 would be allowed on board. 
 
 "It s the Sunday Schools that sell the tickets," ex 
 plained Jerry. "If they weren t so dead eager to pull 
 people s legs for half a dollar, there wouldn t be a crowd 
 like this. It s not the steamship company s fault." 
 
 "But where are they going to put them?" Carey de 
 manded. "There isn t a stool or a seat left, except in 
 side." 
 
 "Oh, don t worry. Every one of em knows what an 
 excursion is like, and comes prepared." 
 
 Somewhere, somehow, the additional hundreds of 
 passengers found room aboard the Narragansett, and, 
 when the steamer once more resumed her course up the 
 river, there was a general altering of positions and set- 
 
THE AMATEUR 105 
 
 tling down. It was as though the worst that each had 
 feared was now over. The One Hundred and Twenty- 
 fifth Street crowd had been disposed of, and now no 
 one was likely to disturb them. There would be no more 
 stops until they reached West Point. 
 
 Carey and Jerry Hart joined the Fillmores on the for 
 ward deck, where they had established themselves on the 
 shady side in the lee of the pilot house, the door of which 
 bore the words: "No Admittance. This Means You." 
 The two little girls were already eating, their faces 
 smeared with jam and crumbs. Mrs. Fillmore and Miss 
 Watt were comfortably seated in chairs, while the others, 
 on the folding canvas stools, were grouped about them. 
 Mrs. Charley Fillmore, her hands engaged with crackers 
 and a jam knife, was endeavouring to brush aside with 
 the back of her bent wrist a wisp of hair that had blown 
 across her eyes. Mr. Blanchard was explaining again 
 and again how he had been able to secure the two chairs 
 for Mrs. Fillmore and Miss Watt while others had to 
 be contented with the folding stools. Anna was not with 
 them. One of the little girls, holding an extra stool tight 
 in her thin little arms, screamed to the two boys as they 
 came up, her mouth full of jam and crackers, that neither 
 of them could have that stool because it belonged to Aunt 
 Annie. 
 
 "The Palisades begin on the opposite shore, Mr. Wil 
 liams," Miss Watt explained. "/ said we ought to be 
 on the other side. All the colouring in the foliage is on 
 that side; you only see the country places of rich folks 
 from this side. But it s pretty both sides. You, being an 
 artist, are sure to like the colouring of the leaves, espe 
 cially as you say you don t have any autumn where you 
 come from. . . . But ain t it a grand day?" 
 
 Mrs. Fillmore, after considerable fishing in her reticule, 
 
106 THE AMATEUR 
 
 produced some sewing. A great deal of confusion fol 
 lowed. Mrs. Fillmore, it seemed, never could thread 
 her needle, her eyes were too poor ; Miss Watt hadn t her 
 glasses with her; Mrs. Charley Fillmore was all 
 "jammy"; Mr. Blanchard said he d try; but Jerry finally 
 volunteered and slipped the silk through the eye with as 
 little difficulty as a seamstress. 
 
 They were still marvelling at his dexterity when Anna 
 joined them. A friend was with her, who was introduced 
 all round as Miss Boardman. Carey sensed that this was 
 the girl with whom later he was expected to dance. She 
 was rather small, with a trim figure, dark hair and eyes, 
 decidedly pretty, with a rather serious expression. Pres 
 ently Anna carried the two boys and Miss Boardman off 
 to see the Palisades, a particularly beautiful portion of 
 which she declared they were passing at that moment. 
 
 A magnificent mosaic of a myriad of brilliant tones 
 covered the abrupt shore. The acclivity rose nearly two 
 hundred sheer feet. Yellows, reds, purples, browns, with 
 every conceivable gradation in shade, overspread the 
 steep bank; and this sumptuous blending of colours 
 stretched up and down the river as far as the eye could 
 see. Although Carey had expected something wonder 
 ful, he was deeply stirred. Anna broke into exclamations 
 of rapture and led Jerry further forward to show him the 
 contrast between the opposing shores. It was not till 
 some time afterwards that Carey became suddenly aware 
 that Miss Boardman was silently leaning upon the rail 
 beside him, chin on palm, obviously stirred by the mad 
 patchwork of colour slipping by them. 
 
 It was several minutes before either of them spoke. 
 Behind them and about them rose a babble of noise ; the 
 laughter and shrill cries of girls, the deeper tones of the 
 men s voices, the screams of children. Carey thought 
 
THE AMATEUR 107 
 
 how vulgar and sordid it seemed, and wished himself a 
 thousand miles away. He turned to the girl : 
 
 "It s beautiful, isn t it?" 
 
 "Yes, I ve never seen anything so exquisite. You re 
 an artist? Miss Blanchard said you . . ." 
 
 "I make my living by drawing. I ve begun to respect 
 the term artist ; so many claim it who haven t any 
 right to do so. It takes years of hard work to become an 
 artist a real artist." 
 
 Miss Boardman made no reply. She continued gazing 
 at the autumnal pageant that seemed to grow more lavish 
 and brilliant as the steamer proceeded. 
 
 "I know what you mean," she said. "I hate pretence. 
 I teach a class of little boys in our Sunday School, but 
 I m not a teacher ; I m really a student ; and with Scrip 
 tural matters I shall always be that. I feel so hypocritical 
 when my little boys turn to me as an authority for an 
 swers to their questions. The only title I really deserve," 
 she said with a little laugh, "is that of stenographer/ 
 
 "Where do you work?" Carey asked. He thought it 
 remarkable for this girl to acknowledge so simply she 
 was a wage-earner. 
 
 "I m with the Consolidated Press Syndicate." 
 
 Carey turned to her, surprised. 
 
 "You are! Do you know Mr. Sherman?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, indeed. I take dictation from him almost 
 every day. He s very nice." 
 
 "I called on him once to show him some of my work." 
 Carey told her about his visit and the interruption of 
 the big man with the heavy jowl and the black moustache. 
 
 "That s Mr. Reinhardt. He s the General Manager; 
 he s a hard man to work for; he yells at the girls so he 
 frightens them nearly to death. The telephone operator 
 
io8 THE AMATEUR 
 
 is Miss Allison. She s a dear; I m awfully fond of her. 
 . . . Did Mr. Sherman give you a story ?" 
 
 "He was going to," said Carey, "when that big guy 
 Mr. Reinhardt butted in." 
 
 "You ought to call on him again. He s kind to begin 
 ners." 
 
 Her phrase ruffled Carey. His first impulse to meet 
 her own frankness with equal simplicity gave place to 
 an eager desire to impress her. 
 
 "Oh, I guess he can come after me now," t he said. "I 
 had just hit New York when I went to see him, and that 
 was his chance. As it is, Ben Mercy was the first to 
 recognise what I could do. He and the Art Editor of the 
 Occident give me all the work I can possibly handle." 
 
 Miss Boardman s silence left him in doubt as to 
 whether she was awed by this information, or whether 
 she knew he lied. The situation was saved by Anna and 
 Jerry joining them. 
 
 Anna was in the wildest spirits, bordering on hysteria. 
 She threw her arms around Miss Boardman and began to 
 kiss her rapturously, to the girl s obvious embarrassment. 
 
 "Oh, quit playing post-office," cried Carey, in disgust. 
 "Who said there was going to be any dancing?" 
 
 "Let s go down on the deck below and see," cried 
 Anna. "I hear the band ! Come on, Janey !" She caught 
 the other girl s hand and started for the nearest stair 
 way. Carey and Jerry Hart followed. 
 
 The music furnishing the clue, the four had no difficulty 
 in locating the dancing on a lower deck. Aft, in the rear 
 of the cabin, the deck had been roped off. The band, 
 which had dwindled to six pieces, was arranged in a 
 ragged half -circle at the stern. Inside the roped space, 
 couples were gravely revolving. There seemed no grace 
 or abandon or mirth in their movements. Seriously, with 
 
THE AMATEUR 109 
 
 conscientious effort, they applied themselves to the matter 
 in hand. Even the music seemed to emanate from some 
 kind of a mechanical contrivance. Jerry slipped behind 
 Miss Boardman, put one arm around her waist, and 
 whirled her off among the dancers. Carey, about to ask 
 Anna to follow their example, was interrupted by the 
 Reverend Mr. Hammersmith, who wanted to talk to 
 Anna about the Church guild. Carey watched the dancers 
 a while, feeling forlorn and dispirited. Presently the dance 
 was over, and Miss Boardman and Jerry met him, both 
 smiling happily, breathing hard from their exertions. 
 
 They were drinking lemonade at a counter that had 
 been rigged up close by for the convenience of the danc 
 ers, when the music for the next dance began. As Anna 
 came towards them, Jerry and Miss Boardman turned 
 about together and Carey was obliged to ask Anna for 
 the dance. 
 
 He was thoroughly disgusted with everything and 
 everybody now, and decided to sulk. He excused him 
 self to Anna when the music ceased, and went down to 
 the lower deck where the men were smoking. Here was 
 located the bar but to-day it was covered over with an 
 iron grating, heavily padlocked. About its counter and 
 brass footrail, Carey knew many a drunken scene had 
 taken place. He had often heard of the orgies that oc 
 curred on these excursion steamers when a rough holiday 
 crowd was on board. There were sometimes fights 
 serious ones with perhaps a quick knife-thrust or the 
 flash of a revolver whipped from a hip pocket. 
 
 Carey smoked a cigarette, and then made the circle of 
 the narrow deck outside. There were few people, only 
 those who had not been able to find room on the decks 
 above, or those who preferred the comparative quiet. At 
 the stern, where the wake suddenly formed, a writhing, 
 
no THE AMATEUR 
 
 gushing white tangle of foam, stretching out behind 
 across the even surface of the river like a trailing mass of 
 floating hair, the deck was deserted. He investigated 
 some of the corridors that ran between the state rooms 
 and cabins, and, trying some of the handles of the doors, 
 was surprised to find one of them unlocked. 
 
 He had never seen the inside of a steamer s stateroom 
 before. He glanced up and down the narrow corridor. 
 At one end a single light in a red globe cast a mysterious 
 ruddy reflection on the double row of white, silent doors, 
 passively facing one another, all carefully shut and 
 locked except this one. The Narragansett began to roll 
 slightly from the wash of a passing steamer. The smell 
 of cooking from the galley, where lunch was being pre 
 pared, floated down the corridor. An altercation between 
 the coloured cooks was in violent progress. 
 
 Cautiously Carey pushed open the door. The state 
 room was quite empty; he stepped in. It was of ordinary 
 size, but it seemed to him absurdly small. On the left 
 were two bunks, the lower considerably wider than the 
 upper. In both were mattresses, and across these lay 
 two neatly folded blankets. The porthole was securely 
 bolted. Underneath it stood the wash stand, designed 
 for economy of space; a small piece of a well-advertised 
 soap, wrapped up in a gaudy wrapper, lay in the soap dish. 
 Behind the door and along the side of the wall, hooks 
 were carefully arranged for clothes. There was a white 
 wooden stool. This completed the room s inventory. 
 And yet it had a decidedly romantic charm for Carey. 
 He thought of himself and Jerry taking a trip together 
 in such a compact little cabin. His heart thrilled. By 
 kneeling on the stool he could peer out of the porthole 
 upon the narrow deck which he had recently traversed. 
 Two people, a man and a girl, sat immediately beneath 
 
THE AMATEUR 111 
 
 him, eating an early lunch from a yellow pasteboard 
 shoe-box. 
 
 He felt that Jerry must see this enchanting room. He 
 slipped into the narrow hall and closed the door silently 
 behind him. It was part of the game to be mysterious 
 about it. 
 
 He came upon his friend descending the stairway from 
 the upper deck. Each was looking for the other. 
 
 "Well, for the love of !" 
 
 "Say, Jerry, I want to show you one of the cabins 
 down below. The door was unlocked; I just happened 
 to try the handle." 
 
 "Are you sore about something?" Jerry demanded. 
 
 Carey looked blank. 
 
 "Well, what do you go sneaking off for like that? 
 Just like a sore-headed bear!" 
 
 "Oh, forget it, Jerry," said Carey. "Sore nothing! 
 Come ahead I want to show you this cabin. . . . Jerry, 
 would you like to travel somewhere on a big steamer?" 
 
 When they reached the stateroom, Carey was disap 
 pointed in the other s seeming lack of enthusiasm. Jerry 
 looked about, evidently interested, but indifferent to the 
 romantic charm that had possessed Carey so completely. 
 
 "What do you think of little Janey?" asked Jerry 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Janey? Janey who?" demanded Carey. 
 
 "Anna s friend. You know ! Miss Boardman ! Isn t 
 she a pippin?" the other continued. 
 
 Carey said nothing. He was thinking of Jerry s clev 
 erness with women, his ability to reach terms of intimacy 
 with them that would take him, Carey, weeks to achieve. 
 
 Jerry sat down on the lower berth and ran his hands 
 through his hair. 
 
 "You like her, don t you, Carey?" he said. "Well, I 
 
112 THE AMATEUR 
 
 had a hunch you did. I won t go butting in. Go to it, me 
 boy; you have my blessing!" 
 
 Carey was surprised to find himself suddenly angry. 
 He cursed Jerry violently. 
 
 "God! You make me sick! It s girls and women 
 women and girls, with you from morning to night. A 
 pretty woman can t pass you on the street without you 
 smirking and blurting out, Get on to the skirt/ Pipe 
 the shape. You ve gone stark crazy about girls. You 
 can t meet a decent little girl like that Boardman kid that 
 you don t immediately begin to chase her calling her by 
 her first name twosing and flirting with her. Why, even 
 poor old Anna Blanchard you can t let alone. What is 
 there in it for you, with a girl like Anna ? She s a silly, 
 hysterical creature, almost an old maid ! You go teasing 
 and jollying the poor thing until she doesn t know 
 whether she s afoot or ahorseback." 
 
 Jerry stared at his friend in amazement. Carey rarely 
 expressed himself so vehemently. His fair skin was 
 congested with his emotion, his hands were clenched, his 
 voice shook. 
 
 "Well well well!" Jerry said, placatingly. "Don t 
 get so excited. Good Lord you fly off the handle like a 
 nervous old hen. Anna isn t so bad, now. She s got a 
 trim enough figure, and there isn t any harm in admiring 
 a beautiful figure, is there? I bet you, she . . . Well, 
 never mind. You re too damn touchy. Forget it, my 
 boy. What did you say about taking a trip somewhere?" 
 
 Carey began to explain how much a voyage in a big 
 steamer, with Jerry and himself in a little cabin such as 
 they were in, would mean to him. For a long time they 
 argued the different countries they preferred. Carey 
 wanted to visit South America ; Jerry was only interested 
 in Paris. Carey had heard his father talk of the beauties 
 
THE AMATEUR 113 
 
 of Buenos Aires and the Argentina, and he had always 
 been eager to see them for himself. He was regaling 
 Jerry with some of his father s experiences when he ob 
 served that the other was not listening. Brusquely he 
 stood up. 
 
 "Come on; it must be lunch time. Let s eat in the 
 restaurant. The Fillmores have a lot of boxes packed 
 with lunch, but I know just what s in em. We get 
 enough of their grub, anyhow." 
 
 As they came out in the smoking cabin, they were sur 
 prised to find it later than they thought. The Narra- 
 gansett was slowing down for the landing at the public 
 dock at West Point. Luncheon in the restaurant was 
 almost over. A few late diners were hurriedly finishing 
 the remnants on their plates, departing from the saloon, 
 toothpicks in mouths. The old steamer listed heavily to 
 starboard as her passengers crowded along her rail, cran 
 ing their necks to watch the boat make her landing. 
 
 Carey s eyes were fastened on the grey stone buildings 
 beyond upon the hill, where at one time he had hoped he 
 was to learn to become a soldier. 
 
 In the scramble that attended the disembarking, he lost 
 Jerry. He spent nearly ten minutes of the hour that the 
 excursionists were allowed to view the Academy in look 
 ing for him. He waved to the two white bundles on the 
 upper deck that represented Mamma Muggins and Miss 
 Watt. None of the others was with them. He decided, 
 presently, that Jerry had gone on, and he set out to over 
 take him. 
 
 He failed to do so, however, as the excursionists were 
 scattered over the Academy grounds. He was disap 
 pointed in seeing so few of the cadets. Most of them 
 were in their class rooms ; he caught an occasional glimpse 
 
ii 4 THE AMATEUR 
 
 of a grey-uniformed figure at a window. Once a cadet 
 officer passed him, his note books under his arm, the 
 ends of the red sash about his waist flying behind him as 
 he walked. Carey could not keep his eyes away from 
 him, fascinated by the other s erect carriage, the supple 
 ness of his young physique, the grace with which he 
 strode along. 
 
 A prolonged blast of the Narragansett s whistle ad 
 vised him that it was time to return. The excursionists 
 began to retrace their steps toward the boat. But Carey 
 failed to encounter Jerry, either in the numerous groups 
 that passed him, or later when he made a tour of the 
 steamer s decks after the last of her passengers had come 
 aboard, the gang-plank pulled in, and the return trip be-, 
 gun. He met Miss Boardman, however, as he came up 
 to where the Fillmores were sitting, in the hope that, as 
 a final possibility, Jerry might have joined them. None 
 had seen Jerry. Miss Boardman was looking for Anna, 
 half afraid she had been left behind. Together they made 
 a final circuit of the upper deck. 
 
 "Perhaps they ve eloped," suggested Carey. 
 
 Miss Boardman glanced at him a moment and began 
 to laugh. 
 
 When she laughed, Carey was struck with the ex 
 ceeding charm of her expression. In repose, her face 
 was almost too serious. 
 
 "Anna s eloping with any one seems to me terribly 
 funny," she said. "She s far too much the cricket-by- 
 the-hearth for that." 
 
 "For a person who lives such a humdrum existence, 
 she seems to get an awful lot of fun out of life," Carey 
 remarked. 
 
 "That s her nature," said Jane Boardman. "I never 
 knew any one with so sunny a disposition. I ve known 
 
THE AMATEUR 115 
 
 Anna for over three years, and I ve never seen her when 
 she was either blue or unhappy. And she s had a great 
 deal more trouble than I." 
 
 "Have you had trouble?" asked Carey. "You don t 
 look as though you d ever had an unhappy day in your 
 life." 
 
 Miss Boardman shrugged her shoulders lightly. 
 
 "Oh, nothing much. Just money trouble. My father 
 lost his money and he s he s ill, you know. It s " she 
 hesitated, "it s a sort of paralysis, they say," she added. 
 "My brother and I have to work. . . . They re dancing 
 again. Let s go down." 
 
 It was too hot for dancing. The roped-off deck they 
 found deserted, the musicians drooping over their instru 
 ments. Boys with "ice-cold lemonade" and sheaves of 
 straws were working their way among the crowded 
 groups, hawking their beverage. Most of the men were 
 asleep, their figures sprawled across the deck or propped 
 on chairs. The clatter of children was noticeably hushed. 
 Occasionally one heard a subdued crooning from a mother 
 coaxing a child into its mid-day nap. 
 
 "Let s go down on the deck below," suggested Carey. 
 "There s almost no one there, and it s quiet and cool ; you 
 can walk up and down. Did you ever take an ocean voy 
 age on a big steamer, Miss Boardman?" 
 
 "No, I never have," she answered. "Of course I 
 should like it, some day. I should dearly love to travel. 
 Have you?" 
 
 Carey commenced telling her about the stateroom he 
 had found unlocked that morning. He finished by tell 
 ing her all about his home, his mother, his life and his 
 ambitions. 
 
 They had found two stools, and placed them in the 
 extreme stern. They hung over the rail watching the 
 
ii6 THE AMATEUR 
 
 foaming waters rush violently together, pouring them 
 selves into the great hole the steamer constantly left 
 behind. There was no one on either side of them for 
 some distance. 
 
 "I m determined to make good, Miss Boardman," 
 Carey concluded. "But it seems such a long road. I 
 don t know there s something wrong with me, I guess. 
 I lied to you this morning. That s not a bit so about 
 Ben Mercy and the Occident Art Editor giving me work. 
 That was an awful lie. I guess I wanted to make you 
 think I was making a big success." 
 
 The girl turned abruptly toward him, her hands ex 
 tended impulsively till her finger tips touched his sleeve. 
 
 "I m glad you ve said that/ she replied. "I knew 
 that wasn t so, because Anna had told me about the mono 
 grams. It hurt me to have you think I was the kind of 
 person with whom that would count. Why, when Anna 
 first told me about you, I wanted to meet you right away, 
 just because you were a beginner and had your success 
 to win. I know how hard it is to make a success in your 
 profession. Do you suppose I should have the least 
 cared about knowing you if Anna had told me you were 
 getting all the work you could handle from Ben Mercy 
 and the Occident man? 
 
 "I hate pretence," she went on vehemently. "People 
 who try to bluff never get anywhere; they never fool 
 anybody. By and by bluffing becomes a disease, and they 
 begin to bluff themselves, and then they become laughing- 
 stocks to all their friends." 
 
 "I wish somebody would take me out and kick me 
 round the block," said Carey. 
 
 "Now, don t let what I ve said bother you. It s as 
 though you d never said it, and we re better friends be- 
 
THE AMATEUR 117 
 
 cause you did. Why, I really want to help you, and I 
 believe I can." 
 
 "You re awfully good," said Carey, gratefully. 
 
 "Would you mind," she continued, "if I spoke to Mr. 
 Sherman about you and asked him to let you come in and 
 have a talk with him, when he had the time?" 
 
 "Mind!" exclaimed Carey. "Why, Miss Boardman, 
 I d give anything to get a real criticism from a man like 
 Sherman. I want to know what the trouble with my stuff 
 is. ... You haven t any idea what this talk with you 
 has meant to me. I ve been frittering away my time, 
 fooling round with Jerry Hart and the fellows at the 
 boarding house and not doing a thing. Talking to you 
 has brought back all the keen desire to get in and work 
 that I had when I first arrived in New York. That isn t 
 six months ago, and yet it seems as though I was an en 
 tirely different man now." 
 
 "Well," the girl said, "I shan t have any difficulty 
 in making an appointment with Mr. Sherman. I ll 
 speak to him on Monday, and then I ll telephone Anna, 
 and she can tell you when to come. Mr. Sherman has 
 done a thousand little kindnesses for me, and he s always 
 doing good to others. I know, because he dictates his 
 personal letters to me and, d you know, he gives away 
 nearly half his salary every month ?" 
 
 For some time the two had been walking about the 
 deck. The Narragansett was opposite the Speedway, and 
 those who would disembark at One Hundred and Twenty- 
 fifth Street were beginning to gather their things to 
 gether. Many who had occupied the decks now found 
 the cabins more comfortable, for a sharp afternoon wind 
 had sprung up, freshening with the lengthening shadows. 
 Carey and Jane Boardman practically had their prom 
 enade about the deck unimpeded. 
 
ii8 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Suddenly the girl stopped and held up her hand. 
 
 "Listen!" she commanded. 
 
 Faintly but distinctly there came to their ears the un 
 mistakable accents of Anna s voice. She was crying bit 
 terly, and they caught the reproachful tone and the 
 words : 
 
 "Jerry! Oh, my darling! Oh, Jerry!" 
 
 As though drawn by a magnet, Carey s eyes found 
 the porthole just above their heads. He felt his heart 
 leap and his eyes widen with the excitement that sud 
 denly possessed him. Miss Boardman s gaze, he knew, 
 was fixed upon his face. 
 
 "What is it?" she whispered. "Wasn t that Anna s 
 voice ?" 
 
 "No." He struggled to regain his self-control. 
 "Somebody s seasick, I guess. . . . Would you mind if I 
 smoked a cigarette? I don t think anybody d object now. 
 Every one s gone upstairs. Let s go watch the wake 
 again." 
 
 As he passed down the deck toward the steamer s 
 stern, he involuntarily glanced over his shoulder. As if 
 to furnish the last bit of corroborative evidence, in the 
 scuppers against the rail, between two folding stools at 
 the spot where they had just been standing, lay a broken 
 and forgotten yellow shoe box, in which a lunch had 
 once been packed. It was the same box Carey remembered 
 having seen in the woman s lap when he had peered out 
 through the porthole of the stateroom that morning. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 | A HE next few days were full of perplexity for Carey. 
 A He was beset with one unfamiliar emotion after 
 another. He had never been impressed with sin before. 
 The principles of character he respected were those allied 
 with such virtues as kindness, unselfishness, generosity, 
 respect for the aged and consideration for the feelings 
 of others. His mother had so intensely impressed upon 
 him the evils of drink that he considered men who con 
 stantly required stimulants to carry them through a day s 
 work as but a step removed from being weak-willed and 
 degenerate. Intoxication when, in his own mind, the 
 occasion justified it, was not so reprehensible. All good 
 fellows got "jagged" at times. Besides this, he had a 
 code of honour, a peculiar, man s code, which was vari 
 able and elastic. It was the code of other men he knew, 
 -his associates back home and his new acquaintances in 
 New York. This code, as far as women were concerned, 
 demanded him to hold in contempt men who resisted the 
 overtures of the other sex, but at the same time to con 
 demn those who took advantage of a woman s weakness 
 and first robbed her of her virtue. 
 
 There was little doubt but that Jerry had seduced 
 Anna; and the thought of his wanton selfishness in taking 
 advantage of the poor, simple, loving girl, filled Carey 
 with indignation. There were no palliating circum- 
 
 119 
 
120 THE AMATEUR 
 
 stances. Jerry had played upon her obvious love of him 
 to gratify a moment s passion. It made Carey sick. Like 
 an iron at white heat, the incident burnt itself into his 
 mind and soul. 
 
 Had its effect been only that of horror and disgust, 
 Carey s character might have gained additional strength 
 and his nature a detestation for vice. He lost nothing 
 in the termination of his friendship with Jerry Hart. 
 Even Carey had recognised its demoralising influence. 
 Further association with him, of course, was now im 
 possible. 
 
 Unfortunately, a far more important result of the 
 affair was the effect upon him sexually. It was like the 
 touch upon a switch-board that set the machinery of 
 this hitherto subconscious side of his nature in opera 
 tion. Suddenly he became sexually alive. He was pos 
 sessed with morbid thoughts and an unwholesome curi 
 osity to know just what had taken place in that state 
 room, how Jerry had enticed Anna there, whether he had 
 done so deliberately, or whether the poor girl, submitting 
 to his embraces, had awakened his desires. Constantly 
 there rang in his ears Anna s reproachful cry: "J err y- 
 Oh, my darling ! Oh, Jerry !" 
 
 Carey was naturally pure minded. The trend of his 
 thoughts distressed him profoundly. He struggled to 
 shake them from him; but the presence of both Jerry 
 and Anna in the house constantly supplied new fuel for 
 his imagination. The possession of this secret affected 
 him like a noisome pestilential fungus upon his hitherto 
 clean soul. 
 
 Incessantly he watched them. At first, he avoided 
 Jerry with natural revulsion. The day following the 
 excursion a Sunday Jerry had spent visiting some ac 
 quaintances who lived in Summit, New Jersey. Carey 
 
THE AMATEUR 121 
 
 did not see him again till Monday s supper hour. He 
 thought he detected the quick, significant glance that 
 passed between Jerry and Anna when the former en 
 tered the dining room. 
 
 To Carey, Anna seemed wonderfully self -controlled. 
 Occasionally, he thought others would surely recognise 
 the transparent love that shone out of her eyes when she 
 met Jerry s gaze. Otherwise, she seemed her happy, un 
 affected self. 
 
 In his own mind was going on the agitation that should 
 have been theirs. He could not cease speculating on the 
 outcome of events. He could not sleep. In the night, 
 for long hours, he lay awake, going over the affair, 
 imagining what had happened between them, hearing 
 again and again Anna s reproachful cry. 
 
 As to how much Jane Boardman had understood, he 
 was undecided. She was aware that the voice they had 
 heard was Anna s; but Carey was almost certain she 
 had failed to catch Anna s words. Her attitude at the 
 time had been to protect her friend from their unin 
 tentional eavesdropping. That a girl so young, and so 
 obviously innocent, should be in any way mixed up in 
 such a sordid affair distressed him. Anna was at 
 least eight years her senior. Jane Boardman was not 
 more than a year or so out of her teens. If the episode 
 had made so powerful an impression upon himself, what 
 would be its effect, Carey wondered, upon a mind so 
 tender and pure as this young girl s ? 
 
 He tried to persuade himself, since she had be 
 trayed no sign of agitation at the moment, her compo 
 sure indicated that she had not understood the situation. 
 
 In the unhealthy state of Carey s mind there germ 
 inated a morbid desire for Anna s company. At first this 
 
122 THE AMATEUR 
 
 took the form of spying upon her. Jerry Hart, on Wed 
 nesday, left for a ten days trip up the state. About once 
 in two months, the graphite company that employed him 
 sent him off on one of these salesman tours. Jerry hated 
 to make them; but Carey suspected that this particular 
 trip was suggested by Jerry himself. 
 
 His absence at this time was a great relief to Carey, 
 who foresaw that an explanation of his attitude would, 
 sooner or later, be expected. With Jerry absent, his own 
 curiosity as to Anna s movements abated and, in place 
 of this shabby inquisitiveness, there arose within his heart 
 a genuine affection for her. 
 
 Whether it was because he was Jerry s friend, or be 
 cause his new kindliness and sympathy attracted her, or 
 because his knowledge of her secret made him seem to 
 her miraculously considerate and thoughtful, Anna turned 
 to Carey after Jerry s departure as if she found in him 
 the only relief from the confusion of her thoughts. She 
 was different with him than when she was with Jerry. 
 She rarely laughed, and to Carey this was a welcome 
 change, for often her senseless mirth annoyed him. Long 
 silences occurred between them, and, when they spoke, 
 it was generally Jerry whom they discussed. He was 
 the subject uppermost in both minds, and neither seemed 
 to weary of talking about him, arguing over his traits 
 of character, analyzing his nature. It became custom 
 ary for them to sit on the brown stone steps of the board 
 ing house after dinner for these talks, and often it was 
 nine o clock and after before they went in. Sometimes 
 they walked about the block as far as Fourteenth Street 
 and back. In their arguments concerning Jerry, it was 
 invariably Carey who criticised him, assailing his weak 
 nesses and condemning his selfishness, and Anna who 
 defended him. It became apparent to Carey that he was 
 
THE AMATEUR 123 
 
 nurturing in his heart a steadily growing dislike for his 
 recent friend. When the first feeling of repulsion had 
 passed, Carey feared that his feelings toward him had 
 undergone no radical change. After Jerry s departure, this 
 dislike of him, which Carey felt was engendered by his 
 talks with Anna, was a source of much gratification to 
 him. Carey was at that state of adolescence when in 
 trospection occupied a great deal of his thoughts when 
 alone, but in the present instance, he failed, for the most 
 part, to analyze clearly either his feelings or his emotions. 
 Alone at night in his room, sometimes gazing into the 
 dim shadows that flickered across the white ceiling above 
 his head as he lay in bed, or staring for long minutes at 
 his own reflection in his mirror, Carey tried to understand 
 himself. His increasing interest in Anna and his change 
 of heart toward Jerry puzzled him. At first, he told him 
 self that these arose from a sense of pity and righteous 
 indignation the natural feelings of any man in his posi 
 tion. But, delving into the inner recesses of his heart and 
 dissecting his emotions, he was not sure that they did not 
 emanate from a jealousy that was becoming daily more 
 acute, and a morbid attraction for the girl who had 
 played a weak and adulterous part with his friend. 
 
 Toward the end of the week, Anna received a note 
 from Jane Boardman saying that Mr. Sherman would 
 be glad to see Mr. Williams any afternoon after three. 
 Carey waited until the following Tuesday and, with his 
 portfolio under his arm, once more found himself in the 
 outer office of the Consolidated Press Syndicate. 
 
 He was given no opportunity to cool his heels on this 
 occasion. Almost immediately, Mr. Sherman sent word 
 to "show him in," and, when Carey entered his office, 
 held out his hand with a hearty welcome. 
 
124 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "Well, let s see your proofs, young man," he said 
 cheerfully. "Miss Boardman tells me you have been 
 having a hard time of it. New York s a pretty stiff place, 
 and you came here about the worst possible time of the 
 year to take hold." 
 
 He spent about ten minutes looking at the samples 
 Carey had to show. Then he settled back into his swivel 
 arm-chair and relit the stump of a cigar that had been 
 allowed to go out on the edge of his desk. 
 
 "Mr. Williams," he said, hugging one knee and teeter 
 ing back and forth in his squeaky chair, "the trouble with 
 you beginners is that you don t offer anything we fellows 
 want to buy. Some time I m going to write a little book 
 and call it A Plea for the Down-Trodden Art Editor. 
 Almost every one believes the Art Editor of a publish 
 ing house should be a patron of the Arts and buy things 
 that are shown him, just because they have merit. Now, 
 I m employed here by the owners of this magazine to buy 
 stuff that can be used in it, or order work from men I 
 know can produce it. Along come you with a stack 
 of proofs of your own work. But what have you 
 got to show me? Reproductions of wash illustrations 
 for railway folders, a poster, some sketches of inter 
 esting bits of landscape, that s about all! Doesn t it 
 strike you as preposterous? 
 
 "Now, let me finish!" Sherman continued, as Carey 
 attempted to interrupt. "You ve come to me for advice, 
 and I m feeling particularly good this afternoon, and I m 
 going to give it to you straight from the shoulder. You 
 were going to say that you didn t come here hoping to get 
 a commission, but to have me tell you what was the matter 
 with your stuff and how to go about getting a commis 
 sion from some one. Now, wasn t that what you were 
 going to ask?" 
 
THE AMATEUR 125 
 
 Carey smiled his admission. 
 
 "Well, now, you represent a type. You think you 
 are different, but you re not. You are an excellent type 
 of the beginner who starts out to try to become an 
 illustrator. Now, I represent the type of Art Editor. 
 Here we are, you and I, let s thrash this out together. 
 First, ^remember I m here to buy material for the Con 
 solidated Press Syndicate. It s up to you to bring 
 me something I want to buy. Don t get any notion in 
 your head that, on the strength of what you show me, 
 I m going to give you a story to illustrate! I ve got a 
 dozen to twenty big illustrators that I ve got to support. 
 You smile, but that s literally true. Let s see. Take 
 your friend, Gregory Shilling. He counts on six or ten 
 yarns from me every year to illustrate. He does satis 
 factory work. I m always pleased with what he brings 
 me. Take John Cameron Wilson, Castle Jerome, Henry 
 Lyell, Myron Davis, Mary Sanders Smart, Bonestell and 
 War field, and Mason Edward Camp all of them get 
 work from me and are entitled to keep on getting it as 
 long as their work is satisfactory. How would you feel, 
 Mr. Williams, after you had built up a reputation and 
 a market by hard, sincere, conscientious work, if the 
 Art Editors to whom you had given the result of your 
 best endeavours should hand out their assignments to 
 youngsters whose work showed promise, even admitting 
 they could turn out work as satisfactory?" 
 
 "But how does one ever get a start ?" demanded Carey, 
 struck with Sherman s words. 
 
 "That, my dear boy," the other replied kindly, "no one 
 but yourself will discover. What you first want to do is 
 to study the magazines until you are familiar with what 
 is wanted. You know the kind of illustration you do 
 the best. If you don t, find out. Then determine the 
 
126 THE AMATEUR 
 
 periodical that uses your kind of material the most. Now, 
 we publish a great many Western stories calling for 
 cowboys and mining camps and cattle ranges. Gregory 
 Shilling and Mason Edward Camp generally do these for 
 me. Overman s wants sea pictures; and you know the 
 magazines that are devoted to women s interests. Pick 
 out one that you think would be most likely to use your 
 work, and then try to sell em something, always going to 
 them with material they can use. Take one of the stories 
 they have already published, read it and study it, and 
 illustrate it yourself in your own way, and then take it 
 to them and say, Look here, Mr. Art Editor, these pic 
 tures I drew to illustrate a story in your last February 
 issue. You remember so-and-so drew the pictures for it, 
 but this is what I would have shown you if you had given 
 it to me. Now, sir, on the strength of these pictures of 
 mine, do you think you can give me a story to illustrate 
 on speculation ? 
 
 "Then, you see," Mr. Sherman continued, "you re 
 offering him something he can appraise. I ve given that 
 piece of advice to several hundred artists in my time, 
 and, as far as I know, not one of them has ever followed 
 it. They say, Oh, I haven t the time, or I can t afford 
 model hire/ But they hang on for months without work, 
 which is much more expensive. Of course, you can at 
 tempt a cover design and send it to the various magazines 
 that might use it. But selling a cover design is the hard 
 est thing I know of, and I should advise you not to waste 
 your time trying it. When it comes to a cover, our cir 
 culation manager knows much more about what makes 
 a good one than I do. Obviously the artist knows even 
 less." 
 
 "Now, in regard to your work itself, Mr. Williams," 
 Sherman went on, picking up Carey s proofs, "there s 
 
THE AMATEUR 127 
 
 not very much I can say. This is the kind of material 
 that would get you more railway folders to illustrate. It 
 indicates that you can do this sort of work fairly well. 
 You know how to handle a vignette interestingly, and 
 you have a certain sense of composition ; but it s all com 
 mercial advertising stuff. It s hard and tight; there s 
 no feeling in it whatsoever. Now, this poster. You ve 
 got an eye for colour values ; but, again, your composition 
 is all too tight. You re muscle-bound, if you know what 
 I mean. Your style is cramped and Hello, what s this? 
 I didn t see this before. Is this yours?" 
 
 He held up the pastel sketch of Jerry Hart that Carey 
 had recently finished. 
 
 "It s a friend of mine. I did it only the other day," 
 he said. 
 
 "Well, this has freedom and quality, and you ve caught 
 a rare expression. That s good excellent. Of all your 
 work this alone seems to indicate you could do something 
 beyond the ordinary." 
 
 He continued to study the sketch for some minutes. 
 
 "Why don t you develop a technique?" he asked. "I 
 suppose that s easy to suggest and rather difficult to do. 
 The reason I mention it to you is that most I might say 
 almost all of the modern illustrators who are extremely 
 popular have developed a technique. Often it is their 
 technique that is popular not their work. There s Castle 
 Jerome; his work is executed too rapidly to be anything 
 but sketchy ; frequently his draughtsmanship is so faulty 
 his figures are grotesque; but he s popular because of his 
 unusual technique. I think, outside of Sargent, he is, 
 oddly enough, the finest water-colourist now living; but 
 he s not known on that account at all. Charles Hanna 
 Simpson, the best-known of all the illustrators and a 
 great artist as well, has a pronounced technique. He is 
 
128 THE AMATEUR 
 
 generally imitated but he is clever enough to change his 
 style faster than his imitators can follow. Technique, 
 style, manner of presentation would help you sixty per 
 cent of the way." 
 
 "How how does one go about developing a tech 
 nique ?" asked Carey, after a few minutes pause. 
 
 Sherman shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "There s a well-known landscape painter I forget his 
 name who spreads two canvases the same size with 
 the predominating colours in a woodland scene. He 
 squeezes the paint from his tubes onto the canvases and 
 then rubs the canvases one against the other until the 
 colours are all mixed together. While the paint is still 
 wet, he indicates a brook in the foreground, or a gnarled 
 trunk of a tree in the middle distance, or a suggestion of 
 blue sky through the foliage, and leaves the rest to the 
 imagination. That s one way. That particular one 
 has the advantage of making two pictures at the same 
 time! Technique is often nothing more than a trick. 
 Bonestell puts his colours on with his palette knife; Perry 
 Maxwell rubs his in with the ball of the thumb. Benja 
 min Acker works from photographs instead of models, 
 and as a result there is a predominating sharp contrast 
 between his shadows and high-lights in all his pictures, 
 which in my opinion is unfortunate and extremely tire 
 some. He has developed a technique only suitable to illus 
 trations calling for plenty of action; his style limits him; 
 he will never do anything of importance because he has 
 used unfair methods. Some ways are recognised to be 
 legitimate ; others are obviously tricks. A trick or a stunt 
 will get you nowhere. Even the public will recognise you 
 to be a faker, and you can not prevent others from imi 
 tating your trick. Of course if you can conceal it it may 
 serve you for a time. Every one is wondering about 
 
THE AMATEUR 129 
 
 Camden-Forbes and how he gets the effects he does in 
 Russian charcoal; some day his secret will be discovered 
 and that will be the end of him. Develop your technique 
 honestly and you will be respected." 
 
 Carey s heart was aflame as he walked out of the offices 
 of the Consolidated Press Syndicate. The inspiration 
 lasted for many days, during which he worked harder 
 than he had ever done in his life. He seriously tried to 
 invent a technique, although, in his heart, he knew that 
 such a thing was the result of slow development, or of 
 inspiration. 
 
 At the end of his ten days trip, Jerry Hart came home. 
 Carey had been dreading his return, fearful of what 
 might attend his presence in the house again. Little 
 seemed to result. Observing them closely, Carey failed 
 to detect any display of feeling in either him or Anna. 
 She was once again her happy, silly, amused self, laugh 
 ing in soundless convulsions at Jerry s nonsense. No 
 pangs of conscience evidently troubled him. Carey mar 
 velled at his composure and easy assurance. His casual, 
 flippant manner and deliberate efforts to make Anna 
 laugh were as natural and as unconcerned as ever. 
 
 On the second evening after his return, Jerry did not 
 come home for dinner, and Anna also was absent from 
 the table. Miss Watt explained that Anna had been in 
 vited to supper with the deaconesses ; there was to be an 
 affair at the church, and every one was working for it. 
 Carey sat on the steps after dinner, consuming one cig 
 arette after another, waiting for Anna to return, his tur 
 bulent heart aching with jealousy. At ten-thirty, he 
 caught sight of her walking up Sixteenth Street from the 
 direction of St. George s, prim and sedate, with a baffling 
 air of innocence and artlessness. She was full of plans 
 
i 3 o THE AMATEUR 
 
 for the Sunday School entertainment, and Carey began 
 to have misgivings as to the correctness of his suspicions, 
 when Jerry appeared, too obviously approaching from 
 the opposite direction. 
 
 Carey, stricken with the damning confirmation of what 
 he both feared and wished to prove, left them abruptly 
 and went up to his own room, locking the door against 
 a possible visit from Jerry. 
 
 The night that followed he never forgot. Hour after 
 hour he wrestled with himself, despising his own weak 
 ness, raging in jealous fury at Jerry s contemptibleness 
 and lightly worn favours, torturing himself by alternately 
 wanting and detesting Anna. He did not understand his 
 suddenly aroused animal desires, the clamour of sex 
 within him. He had been singularly spared up to the 
 present time this distressing experience of youth. He 
 was sick with loathing of himself. 
 
 Gazing from his open window for long intervals at the 
 black shadows of the shuttered houses across the street, 
 the chill night wind blowing upon his bare chest where 
 his nightgown hung unbuttoned at his throat, or forcing 
 his mind to grasp the sense from the pages of a book or 
 magazine, resorting to one futile subterfuge after an 
 other, exerting what will power was left him to distract 
 his thoughts, all was of no avail to rid him of the agita 
 tion that swept his heart and brain. At a quarter to two, 
 he dressed and let himself noiselessly out of the house. 
 He walked as far as Stuyvesant Square, and sat for a 
 while upon one of the deserted benches. It was very 
 cold, and presently he was forced to walk again to keep 
 warm. The excitement within him gave not an instant s 
 peace. With shut teeth and nails biting his palms, he kept 
 repeating her name over and over: "Anna Anna 
 Anna." As he walked about, he was frequently ap- 
 
THE AMATEUR 131 
 
 proached and accosted by poor, wretched women, as mis 
 erable as he. Their pitiable attempt to simulate high 
 spirits and their invitations to him to share with their 
 poor, wasted brains and bodies a time of fun and friv 
 olity, sickened him. He turned away shuddering. He 
 bought a drink at a Third Avenue saloon, and wearily 
 sought his room. It was a little after three. He un 
 dressed and went to bed, and fiercely tried to compel him 
 self to sleep. At four o clock he was again pacing his 
 room, eight steps to the closet door, eight steps back 
 again to the windows. Slowly the passion within him 
 wore him out, pursuing him until, from sheer exhaustion, 
 he fell across his bed and slept. 
 
 He woke the next morning to find big Joe Downer 
 smiling down upon him, his black wide-brimmed hat 
 pushed back upon his scraggy hair, his bulging, battered 
 straw valise beside him on the floor. Carey sat up dazed, 
 bewildered, trying to adjust matters. For a moment 
 neither spoke, Joe continuing his smiling contemplation, 
 Carey returning his look, his eyes searching the other s 
 face in puzzled inquiry. His head and back were aching, 
 his eyes smarted, his mouth was hot and leathery. 
 Abruptly the recollection of his long vigil came upon 
 him. Shakily he rose to his feet. 
 
 "Oh, my God, Joe, I m glad you ve come," he said, and 
 put his arms about the other s shoulders, sinking like a 
 tired child against the rough texture of his coat. 
 
 "Well, kid! Well, kid!" exclaimed Joe, "why, what s 
 the trouble? I ve been watching you asleep there for 
 almost five minutes. They told me to come right up. I 
 only got in half an hour ago." 
 
 "How s mother?" asked Carey, without raising his 
 head. 
 
132 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "Fine. I tried to persuade her to come. I told her 
 we d surprise you. But she said she was afraid of the 
 trip of the weather of this thing and that. You know 
 your mother, Carey." 
 
 Carey was finding too much comfort in the heartening 
 circle of Joe s arm to make an effort to reply. Pres 
 ently, he said: 
 
 "Fin all in this morning. I ve got a splitting head, 
 neuralgia in my neck. I had a hell of a night last night. 
 . . . I ll be all right as soon as I shoot some bromo into 
 me." 
 
 "Been hitting her up?" asked Joe. 
 
 Carey pulled away from him a moment, an indignant 
 denial upon his lips. Then, at the thought of what an 
 explanation entailed, he nodded, and slipped back upon 
 the bed, his elbows upon his knees, thrusting his long 
 fingers through the tangle of his yellow hair. 
 
 Joe regarded him silently, compassionately, lovingly. 
 Carey knew that Joe had that humble, dog look in his 
 eyes that had always irritated him. 
 
 He jumped up, drawing his bath robe around him, and 
 turned toward the door. 
 
 "I ll take a quick bath, Joe, and be back in a jiffy. Un 
 pack your duds and put em where you can find room. 
 You know, it s just the same as when we were living 
 together." 
 
 He dropped the door knob a moment and came toward 
 the other, putting a hand on either of Joe s shoulders. 
 
 "Joe," he said, his voice husky and constrained, "I 
 never was so glad to see any one in all my life. You 
 couldn t have timed your visit better. You re like the 
 Rock of Gibraltar, Joe. . . . I ll don my Broadway 
 trappings and we ll have a grand old time doing New 
 York!" 
 
THE AMATEUR 133 
 
 And a very memorable time it was a fortnight in both 
 their lives of irresponsibility and happiness, supplying 
 memories of theatrical orgies, jolly midnight suppers, and 
 long, light-hearted days roaming about the city which 
 each one was long to cherish. From Joe Downer s shoul 
 ders a mantle of repression seemed to drop, and Carey, 
 giving himself entirely into Joe s hands, opening his heart 
 to him, discussing the emotions that bothered him, win 
 nowing away the morbidness of his thoughts, felt like a 
 foul rag washed clean. During Joe s visit, he lost his 
 interest in Jerry and Anna completely and, being rarely 
 home at meal times, saw but little of them. He told Joe 
 about the whole affair and its malign effect upon himself. 
 Joe was unable to give advice that could be of any 
 possible help to Carey, but the boy anticipated this before 
 he told him. Joe always acted like a sharp breeze on 
 the foggy atmosphere of Carey s mind. His vision 
 cleared, distortions vanished. Whatever Carey might 
 decide to do, Joe s abiding faith in him never faltered. 
 Joe would reply to Carey s involved diagnosis of his state 
 of mind: 
 
 "Well, kid, that way of thinking won t bring you any 
 where. Why don t you go away for a while ? Can t you 
 make up your mind to think about something else ? Why 
 don t you change your boarding place?" 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 AFTER Joe s departure, Carey devoted himself with 
 grim determination to his Art. At a second-hand 
 hook store he bought up some old copies of the weekly 
 published by the Consolidated Press Syndicate and read a 
 number of the stories. Two of these appealed to him, 
 the illustrations for which struck him at the same time 
 as particularly inadequate, and he proceeded to make 
 his own pictures for them. Whether it was Sherman s 
 encouragement or the wholesome influence of Joe s visit 
 that supplied the incentive, Carey felt that he never had 
 done better work. The compositions came easily and 
 his drawing was sure, and seemed to be less tight than it 
 had ever been. One set of illustrations he worked up 
 in Russian charcoal, the other in wash. He was for 
 tunate in securing the right models as well. He hired the 
 old organ-grinder who invariably paid the boarding house 
 its Saturday visit, and pressed McNeil as well as one of 
 the Fillmore children into model service. His work 
 thrilled him. He rose early to get his monograms finished 
 and out of the way that he might begin on his illustrations 
 the sooner. He applied himself to it as long as the after 
 noon light lasted, and in the evening sat before his draw 
 ing board, until ten and sometimes eleven o clock, touch 
 ing up his day s work here and there where he dared, 
 studying what he had already finished, determining to- 
 
 134 
 
THE AMATEUR 135 
 
 morrow s plans. Just before he turned out the gas, 
 he always arranged the drawing he was at work upon 
 so that it would catch the best morning light and be the 
 first thing his eye rested upon when he awoke. It seemed 
 to him that he was able to get at that moment a fresher 
 point of view than at any other time during the day. 
 
 He decided to do three pictures for each story. The 
 set for the first gave him no trouble at all ; but the second 
 supplied difficulties. It called for one composition with 
 three women ; and this Carey blocked in five times before 
 it seemed to promise to come right. Then the right 
 models failed him entirely. He spent hours in Stuyvesant 
 Square surreptitiously sketching the nursemaids, selecting 
 those whose attitudes came nearest to fitting his compo 
 sition. In desperation he even called up Gregory Shilling 
 on the telephone, to ask him where satisfactory profes 
 sional models could be had. The artist was not in town, 
 however, and Carey faced the prospect of failing to com 
 plete the pictures for the second story and taking Sher 
 man the ones for the first alone, when it occurred to him 
 that Anna might be willing to pose. He had seen very 
 little of her since Joe s departure. Being engrossed in 
 his work, he had thought of nothing else. Jerry was 
 again away. He had been gone about a week. How 
 much his one-time companion felt he suspected, Carey 
 did not know, but others in the house observed there was 
 a breach between them, and Carey was sure that Jerry 
 himself recognised the fact that their friendship was at 
 an end. That his former chum made no effort to 
 straighten matters out and re-establish their old intimacy, 
 seemed proof that he feared Carey was somehow aware 
 of his criminal behaviour, and that any overtures on his 
 part toward renewing their old companionship would be 
 useless. 
 
136 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Anna readily agreed to pose for Carey, on the under 
 standing that the model-hire he offered her should go to 
 a church fund in which she was deeply interested. She 
 proved an excellent model, and Carey began to make 
 rapid progress with his work. 
 
 Faintly at first, then with increasing intensity, the old 
 physical attraction of the girl came back upon him. The 
 posture he asked her to assume demanded a half sitting, 
 half reclining attitude. She sat upon the edge of the 
 couch, her chin upon the heel of her palm, her elbow 
 thrust into a pile of cushions, the other hand resting 
 lightly upon her hip. She possessed undeniable grace 
 and, as Carey studied her, drawing in the lines of her 
 figure, the passion he had struggled against once more 
 seized upon him. 
 
 He was greatly tempted to prolong the sittings. Anna, 
 silent, still, her face and body in repose, was infinitely 
 more attractive and alluring than Anna giggling, hoy- 
 denish, betraying the vacuity of her mind. As the min 
 utes passed one by one, a spell seemed to emanate from 
 her and enfold him in a revery of sensuous intoxication. 
 Sometimes long intervals would elapse without his adding 
 anything to the picture. When Anna would abruptly sit 
 up to rest, it suggested to Carey the destruction of some 
 thing beautiful with attending ugly noises. Something 
 repulsive interposed loveliness vanished. He used to 
 hope that Anna would not speak during these intermis 
 sions. Until she assumed her pose again, he applied him 
 self closely to his work. She always did commit herself, 
 however, invariably vapid, or she would come round be 
 hind his chair to look at his work and exclaim : 
 
 "Oh, that doesn t look a bit like me, Mr. Williams!" 
 
 Carey s conscience told him, clamouring at first, that 
 this sexual thought-indulgence was sure to have a perni- 
 
THE AMATEUR 137 
 
 cious effect. He held long arguments with himself about 
 it, telling himself that it could only last until the drawings 
 were completed, and assuring himself, if it continued to 
 torment him, he would move to another boarding place. 
 After one of Anna s visits to his room he would feel 
 utterly exhausted. It was all wrong, unnatural and mor 
 bid. Gazing at his own reflection in the mirror, he would 
 burst out disgustedly at the image : 
 
 "Faugh, you re a beast, Carey Williams! A dirty 
 beast!" 
 
 It was one day when Carey was putting the finishing 
 touches on the last of the figures for which Anna was 
 posing that the girl suddenly crumpled up and fell, a sob 
 bing, quivering little heap upon the couch. She had 
 been standing gazing out of the window, one hand 
 upon a chair back, one knee upon the couch. At first 
 Carey thought that the strain of holding the pose had 
 been too much for her. Uncertainly he rose. Anna gave 
 herself up utterly to her grief, her hands twisting and 
 knotting, her body convulsed with sobbing, while, be 
 tween her gasping breaths, she moaned piteously. Carey 
 was frightened. He hurriedly poured a glass of water 
 and, kneeling beside the couch, tried to persuade her to 
 drink it. But Anna seemed unable to hear him. She had 
 collapsed as though something within her had suddenly 
 broken. Her complete abandon was almost shameless. 
 Carey felt he could not bear to witness it, and started for 
 the door with a vague idea of calling Mrs. Fillmore or 
 Miss Watt, when, between Anna s sobs, he caught a tone 
 of supplicating entreaty and the words : 
 
 "My Jerry!" 
 
 A surge of relief and sympathy swept over him. In 
 stinctively he returned to where she lay, and sat down 
 
138 THE AMATEUR 
 
 beside her, awkwardly but gently stroking her tumbled 
 hair. 
 
 "I know," he said to her, "I know all about it, Anna 
 dearest! Don t cry, my darling. He s not worth your 
 tears." 
 
 The endearments sprang too readily to his lips. The 
 contact of his hand upon her neck set his heart pound 
 ing; his fingers trembled in his excitement. Closer he 
 bent over her, whispering his words of comfort in her 
 ear. 
 
 "Anna, my darling. Don t cry about him. He s a 
 skunk, Anna. I ll take care of you don t cry that way, 
 dear can t you stop ? Oh, Anna ! Don t don t, dearest, 
 I love you so !" 
 
 Incoherencies, words a torrent of murmuring poured 
 from him. His eyes brimmed with the hot tears of his 
 sympathy. He put his arms about her and drew her 
 to him. Presently his clumsy, soothing caresses had 
 their effect and Anna lay quietly in his arms, her body 
 shaken now and then with spasmodic quivers, her wadded 
 handkerchief pressed against her eyes, her lips trembling 
 with each intake of breath. 
 
 Soon she had gained sufficient control of herself to 
 whisper : 
 
 "He s not coming back, any more !" 
 
 Abject grief once more possessed her, and Carey, his 
 heart torn with the surge of pity that swept over him, 
 found himself in a mad excess of emotion, kissing her 
 cheek, her hand, her forehead, drawing her limp and 
 unresponsive body to him, crushing her in his arms. 
 
 The force of his embrace hurt her and she cried out, 
 protesting. Carey released her, his senses swimming, his 
 breath coming in short gasps, his whole body shaking. 
 He buried his face in the hot, moist palms of his hands; 
 
THE AMATEUR 139 
 
 and so the two remained for some time, until Anna began 
 to speak again. 
 
 "He wrote Mamma Muggins to send his things. He 
 said he was going to live in Detroit. . . ." She flung up 
 her head suddenly. "I I won t give him up!" she said 
 between shut teeth. 
 
 Once more she gave way to her grief. 
 
 That she should desire some one else, when she seemed 
 so infinitely desirable herself, was maddening to Carey. 
 He was full of a great, overwhelming pity for her. Poor 
 old Anna ! At the moment it seemed to him that no sacri 
 fice on his part would be too great to save her from this 
 pain and sorrow. The hot blinding tears sprang into his 
 eyes. With a bursting sob, he turned to her again, bury 
 ing his face against her shoulder, trying to gather her in 
 his arms. 
 
 But Anna seemed unconscious of his emotion. She 
 suffered his caresses as though they had been bestowed 
 by a child. They were inconsequential. Every now and 
 then her body shook with a long, quivering sigh. She 
 remained quiet, her eyes closed, one hand pressing 
 against them the little wadded handkerchief. 
 
 Suddenly there were steps outside the door, and a 
 knock, followed by Mrs. Charley Fillmore s voice: 
 
 "Mr. Williams! ... Mr. Williams t . . . Here s a 
 telegram for you." 
 
 For an instant, Carey and Anna gazed at one another, 
 their eyes widening. Then both of them struggled to 
 their feet, Anna busy with her hair and disordered dress, 
 Carey rubbing his tear stained face upon the sleeves of 
 his shirt, pulling his cravat about his collar into place. 
 But, before he could find his voice to answer Mrs. Fill- 
 more, there came again her summons, the knob turned, 
 the door was pushed open, and Mrs. Fillmore peered in. 
 
140 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "Mr. Williams? Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought 
 you might have gone. . . ." 
 
 At this point her eyes rested upon Anna. Swiftly she 
 took in the girl s agitation and the disarray of her hair 
 and clothes. Carey, like a sparrow caught by a snake, 
 watched her, dumb and fascinated, as her eye travelled 
 with lightning speed to him, to the couch, back to Anna, 
 and finally to him. He saw the face of Charley s wife 
 grow white and red, and then suddenly sharpen like a 
 rat s, her eyes closing to half slits, her nostrils faintly 
 quivering. The silence of all three was sufficient to 
 arouse in the most guileless of minds a suspicion that 
 something was wrong. Mrs. Fillmore was the first to 
 recover herself. She approached Carey and held out the 
 yellow envelope of the telegram. 
 
 "This came just now/ 5 she said in a voice obviously 
 controlled. "I brought it up myself. * 
 
 "Thank you," Carey murmured, taking it from her. 
 
 Without further comment, the woman turned and 
 left the room. Anna bowed her head upon the marble 
 mantelpiece, her shoulders convulsed with silent weeping. 
 Even at that constrained moment, Carey had time to think 
 how much alike she was in mirth and grief, inarticulate, 
 shaking silently. He went to her, his arms outstretched, 
 but, at the first touch of his fingers, she shrank from him 
 and went swiftly out of the room. 
 
 Carey followed her into the hall and watched her 
 down the stairs until she disappeared, and he heard the 
 abrupt closing of a door. His head was still swimming as 
 he turned back into his own room, gazing vacantly at the 
 telegram in his hand. Mechanically he held the envelope 
 to the light and tore off a strip at one end, shaking out 
 the enclosure. As he spread out the yellow sheet of 
 paper with its familiar printed heading, he was first 
 
THE AMATEUR 141 
 
 aware of the signature: "Mother." Then he read the 
 message in the round hand of the operator: 
 
 My dearest boy, your father has passed on. I 
 want to see you. I am ill and lonely. Come home 
 and let us mourn him together. 
 
 Mother. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 T T was after one o clock when Carey got back to the 
 * boarding house. He had walked straight out Fifth 
 Avenue to One Hundred and Tenth Street, and then had 
 retraced his steps home. With the exception of half an 
 hour at a Childs restaurant for his dinner, he had been 
 walking steadily since five in the afternoon. The first 
 snow of the year was falling and, to Carey s unfamiliar 
 senses, it was wonderfully exhilarating. It gave him a 
 delightful thrill to shuffle his feet in the drifts and to turn 
 his face upward to catch the softly falling flakes upon 
 forehead, cheeks, mouth and chin. He enjoyed eating it, 
 too, scraping off upon his gloved forefinger little piles 
 and mounds of it from the iron fences where it gathered. 
 But, in spite of the excitement of the snow, he was 
 aware of a profound feeling of depression. It was not 
 due to any sense of grief at the thought of his father s 
 death. He had changed to a white shirt and put on a 
 black tie before he left the house, merely because it 
 seemed the thing to do. The idea that his father was 
 dead appealed to his sense of the dramatic. He wanted 
 to grieve about it. He tried to recall the days of his 
 boyhood, when his father had carried him on his shoul 
 ders round the library table, singing: 
 
 "I m Cap-tain Jinks of the Horse Marines, 
 I feed my horse on corn and beans." 
 142 
 
THE AMATEUR 143 
 
 But it brought no sense of affection. He could re 
 member many instances when his father had been good 
 to him. He had a sincere admiration for his father. 
 To Carey he appeared a fine standard of a man. But, 
 with every tender memory of him, there were many more 
 of his severity and harshness, particularly the one when 
 the boy, returning home noisily from school, had en 
 countered the gaunt, tragic figure of his father at the 
 head of the stairs, one hand catching his scant night 
 gown together at the throat, the other holding the drip 
 ping ice-cloth. 
 
 His father was dead. Carey was now a half-orphan. 
 With the knowledge of the world that his six months 
 residence in New York had given him, Carey, speculated 
 for the first time in his life upon the morality of his 
 father s remarriage. He had heard that she was a woman 
 with whose name much scandal had been connected, and 
 that she had travelled with his father as his wife before 
 the divorce had been granted. He knew she was a 
 divorcee when his father met her. Beyond that there 
 was nothing positive. Neither he nor his mother had 
 heard directly from his father for ten years. 
 
 But the sense of depression that filled him as he scuf 
 fled the snow upon the pavement had nothing to do with 
 his father, nor with Anna poor, silly, loving Anna. 
 His thoughts went back to their interrupted afternoon. 
 There would, of course, be no more sittings. It did not 
 matter, as the drawings were practically done, and a day 
 or so of work would finish them completely. He could 
 show them to Sherman any time. The news of his 
 father s death had somehow shaken off the effect that 
 Anna had had upon him. Comparatively, it seemed a 
 trifling matter. 
 
 There was little doubt in his mind that Mrs. Charley 
 
144 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Fillmore would try to put as evil a construction upon 
 the situation as possible. They d take it out on Anna. 
 Poor old Anna! As if she didn t have enough to bear! 
 What a contemptible cad Jerry was ! Carey s fists knotted 
 inside the pockets of his great coat as he strode along, 
 and he shut his teeth fiercely. 
 
 He stopped under a street lamp and gazed up at the 
 light through the blur of the white flakes. Slowly it 
 came to him that the weight upon his heart was there 
 because he must leave New York, New York that he 
 had so hated when he first walked its streets, the great, 
 crouching beast that had seemed to be lying in wait to 
 destroy him. The city had become infinitely dear to him, 
 it was a place for work, a place where success came 
 readily; and he was on the threshold of success; he 
 felt it. The work he had done for Sherman he knew was 
 good. And now, to let it slip through his fingers just 
 when he felt so sure of it. For a moment he considered 
 writing his mother and telling her how impossible it 
 would be for him to leave New York at just this time, 
 leaving her to "mourn" his father alone. He had his 
 own life to live; it was unfair, it was unjust, to ask him 
 to throw away this great chance that was all but within 
 his grasp. 
 
 He gave this thought but a passing moment s considera 
 tion. He could not do it. His mother was his mother, 
 and if she fancied his presence would be a comfort to her 
 at this time, it was obligatory for him to go to her. It 
 was characteristic of her, he thought, with some bitter 
 ness, as he turned homeward, that she expected him to 
 finance his railroad fare. Where was he to get a hundred 
 dollars to take him home? He would have to borrow 
 
THE AMATEUR 145 
 
 from poor old Joe Downer again Joe, to whom he al 
 ready owed twice the amount ! 
 
 He was considering this when he reached the board 
 ing house. The windows were all dark; the only light 
 was in the hall, where the gas in the ornate chandelier 
 had been turned down to a tiny bead. As he climbed the 
 stairs, he realised he was tired in both limb and mind. 
 The creaking of the treads beneath his feet sounded, in 
 the dead silence of the house, like the cracking of whips. 
 Involuntarily he paused by Anna s door. The faint 
 radiance from the subdued gas jet in the hall on the 
 second landing cast a quavering reflection on the wall. 
 In the bathroom at the other end of the hall an intermit 
 tent drip fell from the leaky faucet into the half -filled 
 basin. The dropping noise of the water sounded very 
 musical; it was like a tune: plop-pleep-plat-plum-plat- 
 pleep. 
 
 Carey reached his room and lit the Welsbach burner. 
 Propped against a book on the marble mantel was an 
 envelope addressed to him. Tearing it open, he was 
 surprised to find it was from Anna. 
 
 Thank you for all you ve done for me. I was 
 not indifferent to your love, even if I could not 
 return it. You have been very kind, my only 
 earthly friend. Jesus forgave Mary Magdalene, 
 and I put my faith in Him. May we meet in 
 Heaven. 
 
 ANNA. 
 
 In great red flaming letters there sprang before Carey s 
 wide-staring eyes one hideous word. He read the note 
 again and again, the note paper rattling in his trembling 
 fingers. When and how? The passing minutes might 
 
146 THE AMATEUR 
 
 be precious. There was always the East River in which 
 so many had found oblivion. There was poison and 
 he had heard of antidotes that had saved many a self- 
 destroyer at the last minute. His mind was like a fright 
 ened rabbit. He found time in those dreadful moments 
 of suspense to search his soul for whatever responsibility 
 for this crime might be laid at his own door. He had 
 sinned in his heart against the unhappy girl, but no more 
 than that. Nevertheless, he felt guilty. The thought of 
 flight, of getting away, silently, at once, before any one 
 knew, occurred to him. The impulse was instinctive. 
 
 But what to do? What to do? He kept repeating the 
 words, his dry palms pressed against his cheeks. 
 
 He opened the door of his room and leaned over the 
 banisters, gazing down into the black pit of the stair 
 well. Where had she gone to do it? How had she set 
 about it? A wave of weakness swept over him; he 
 gripped the rail to steady himself. The muscles of his 
 diaphragm heaved convulsively. He set his teeth fiercely, 
 trying to steady his nerves, to compel himself to meet the 
 situation, to do the wisest, the most expeditious thing. 
 
 From below came the musical drip of water from the 
 leaky faucet in the bathroom: plop-pleep-plat-plop-plip. 
 Silently he stole down the stairs to the next landing and 
 stood beside Anna s door. The house was very still. An 
 early milk wagon hurried by in the street, the cans rattling. 
 In the stillness, he could faintly hear the subdued, hoarse 
 breathing of a sleeper on the floor below. Without pre 
 meditation, he tried the handle of Anna s door and gently 
 pushed it open. He was trembling violently. 
 
 "Anna!" he whispered, and then a little louder, 
 "Anna!" 
 
 The room was pitch dark and very close ; the shade was 
 drawn ; no light entered from the street. For some time 
 
THE AMATEUR 147 
 
 Carey stood gazing into the utter blackness of the room, 
 his hand upon the door knob. Again the feeling of great 
 weakness possessed him. As he put his hand to his head 
 to steady himself, the door knob, released from his grasp, 
 sprang back to position with a sharp click. The sound 
 brought his heart knocking into his throat. His knees 
 shook under him. The fear that he was going to faint 
 suddenly brought the needed strength. He fumbled in 
 his vest pocket for a match, and lit it by drawing it 
 sharply along the leg of his trousers. 
 
 Often, as he had passed Anna s door, in going up or 
 down stairs, it had been open. He was familiar enough 
 with the appointments; it was a hall bed-room, the same 
 size as Doctor Floherty s, next to his own on the floor 
 above. The bed or couch was behind the door. A wal 
 nut dresser faced it, its back to the opposite wall. This 
 was covered with vases and toilet articles, pin trays and 
 two or three tiny cushions, while, from the supports of 
 the mirror, hung beribboned favours and embroidered 
 bags for combings, a miscellaneous collection of little 
 feminine articles. A small oval, marble-topped table was 
 in the window recess, and several brightly illumined Scrip 
 ture texts in square shiny black frames adorned the walls. 
 
 As he raised the quavering flame above his head, the 
 dresser and the marble-topped table first disengaged 
 themselves from the darkness. Across a rocking chair 
 lay some white underclothing, neatly arranged. The bed 
 was empty ; the tasselled portiere that served as a couch- 
 cover was evenly folded across its foot. 
 
 There was no one there. The match-flame flared up 
 and went out. As the darkness shut down upon him, 
 Carey staggered out into the hall and began to scream. 
 In that last flicker of the match, he had seen her where 
 
148 THE AMATEUR 
 
 she hung from the top hinge of the door, the congested 
 face and the staring eye-balls on a level with his own. 
 
 There followed lights and many voices, figures in 
 night robes and dressing gowns, the banging of doors and 
 hurried feet upon the stairs. The hall was choked with 
 pushing people who crowded past him where he knelt 
 sobbing against the stair-rail. The clamour of voices 
 rose louder and louder. Cries of "Doctor Doctor" dis 
 engaged themselves from the hideous confusion. Some 
 one it was Washburn was asking questions. Above 
 the hideous racket he heard Miss Watt s shrill wailing. 
 Mrs. Charley Fillmore, seated half way down the stairs, 
 was trying to quiet her two little daughters. The tumult 
 surged around him, the hub-bub of it rose and fell and 
 rose again, breaking out afresh after every lull. Pres 
 ently McNeil and French were with him, the former s 
 tousled hair falling into his eyes, the collar of his night 
 shirt sticking out above his overcoat. Between them he 
 went up-stairs, their arms about him. Then he was in 
 his room and Doctor Floherty was urging some whiskey 
 upon him. After that, there came suddenly back upon 
 him the memory of that awful face and the bulging eye 
 balls. 
 
 It was an unending night. People came into his 
 room and stared at him and asked him questions. The 
 mantle in the Welsbach burner glowed fiercely, the top of 
 the cone a sooty black, like the mark from a dirty thumb. 
 Then he was alone and the room was dark. Below he 
 could hear the sound of women s weeping and, in the ad 
 joining room, the subdued murmur of men s voices. As 
 he turned upon his pillow, there in the blackness, so near 
 his own, he saw again that face of agony and the white 
 eye-balls, like spools starting from the head. Springing 
 
THE AMATEUR 149 
 
 from his bed, he blundered blindly out into the hall, and 
 burst open the door of McNeil s room. There were 
 several there, sitting about under the light, all looking at 
 him. 
 
 "I can t stand it being alone !" he cried. 
 
 "Here s something that will fix you up, Carey," a voice 
 said. He drank the whiskey, and then he saw they had 
 all been drinking it. Their chairs were grouped about 
 the rickety little Japanese table on which the bottle and 
 glasses stood. 
 
 "Feel better, boy?" 
 
 It was Durrant. 
 
 "Here, put this bath-robe on and sit here awhile with 
 us. We re all shaken up over this thing." 
 
 Carey gazed about from face to face. 
 
 "Where s Doctor Floherty?" he asked. 
 
 No one answered him, but French made a downward 
 motion with his finger, and Carey, who caught his mean 
 ing, sank shuddering into his chair. He found it impos 
 sible to follow their conversation, and lay back weak and 
 with closed eyes while the talk went on. 
 
 Presently, every one got up, and Durrant, leaning over 
 him, said: 
 
 "It s morning, Carey. We re going over to the West 
 minster for breakfast. Better get your clothes on and 
 come along with us." 
 
 In a daze he dressed, and in a daze he followed them, 
 and in a daze he lived through the events that followed. 
 There was a visit from the coroner, and later the funeral 
 at St. George s. He remembered afterwards that he 
 had broken down while the rector was speaking about 
 the girl who had lived her life for others. It was the 
 recollection of that first Sunday they had gone to church 
 together to listen to this same man preach that upset his 
 
150 THE AMATEUR 
 
 control. After the ceremony, he and Durrant, McNeil, 
 French and Doctor Floherty stopped at a saloon to get 
 a drink. Being of their party, he unconsciously followed 
 them ; but it struck him as both untimely and wanting in 
 respect to her whose last rites they had just attended. 
 Durrant had been a pall bearer and, in withdrawing his 
 hand from his coat pocket, one of the white cotton gloves 
 he had worn fell out upon the marble floor. It shocked 
 Carey unspeakably. 
 
 Carey dreaded the explanation he knew he should be 
 called upon to make. He was now all eagerness to start 
 for home; impatiently he waited for Joe s response to 
 his telegram for funds. First to French and McNeil and 
 Doctor Floherty, and later, in a painful interview with 
 Miss Watt, he accounted for his presence in Anna s room 
 that night, and showed her Anna s message of farewell. 
 He openly confessed to them his affection for her, and 
 was obliged to speak of Jerry Hart s criminal behaviour. 
 It was tale-bearing, and Carey cordially disliked the role. 
 It seemed like defaming the virtue of one who could no 
 longer defend herself. And yet there was no other course 
 open to him. Silence would have implied his own guilt, 
 and, by taking her life, Anna had admitted hers. It 
 seemed outrageous that Jerry, the offender, should escape 
 without bearing even a part of the sorrow that he alone 
 had brought upon that house. Carey determined to 
 write him and tell him what they thought of him. 
 
 Carey had seen little Jane Boardman at the funeral. 
 Their meeting had taken place on the steps of St. George s 
 as both were entering the church. There had been a rare 
 look of sympathy and understanding in her eyes as he 
 held her hand a moment. 
 
 "Come and see me, some time, won t you?" she said; 
 
THE AMATEUR 151 
 
 and Carey resolved to do so before he left for home, 
 but he dreaded further discussion about Anna, and kept 
 postponing the call from day to day. 
 
 He decided also to defer taking his drawings to Sher 
 man until after his return to New York. The figures of 
 the women in them suggested Anna in every curve and 
 line, and reminded him accusingly of the morbid state of 
 his mind when they had been drawn. It seemed a desecra 
 tion to exhibit them. 
 
 Five days after the funeral, Joe s expected letter 
 arrived. It contained the money order for a hundred 
 dollars and a long, involved explanation of the delay 
 which, shorn of Joe s cumbersome and wordy phrases, 
 appeared to have been due to the fact that Joe was broke, 
 as, unfortunately, his friends were also, and he had had 
 a hard time borrowing the money, as every one needed it 
 for Christmas. It was great to think of Carey s being 
 home for the holidays, and his mother was counting the 
 hours until then. The death of Carey s father had shaken 
 her badly. 
 
 For the first time since the terrible night of Anna s 
 death, Carey felt a lifting of the black depression that 
 had been with him constantly. It had not occurred to 
 him before that he was to be home at Christmas time. 
 There was always a festival at the Pen and Brush Club, 
 and he and his mother and Joe would have some pleasant 
 times together. 
 
 He was singing the chorus of a popular song as he 
 bent over the packing of his suitcase, when Mr. Blanch- 
 ard walked into the room. Anna s father had been shav 
 ing, and some of the soap lather still adhered to one side 
 of his face. He had removed his coat, and his collar 
 
152 THE AMATEUR 
 
 and tie. The unbuttoned vest disclosed the soiled bosom 
 of a starched, crumpled shirt. 
 
 Carey was instantly aware that the old man was in the 
 grip of some powerful emotion. His face was grey- 
 white; the sockets beneath the tufts of grizzled eyebrows 
 were like those of a skull ; he was visibly shaking, while, 
 with absurd little claw-like gestures, he plucked at the 
 bone stud in the neck-band of his shirt. For some mo 
 ments he regarded Carey, his lips moving tremulously. 
 When he began to speak, his voice broke spasmodically. 
 
 "You you can s-sing! You can sing now!" He re 
 peated the words several times, nodding his head as if 
 to confirm them. It occurred to Carey that the shock 
 of his bereavement had touched the old man s mind. He 
 tried to smile at him sympathetically. But Blanchard 
 was intent upon his own thoughts. 
 
 "You damned scoundrel ! You young whelp !" 
 
 Not so much the words as the biting hatred with which 
 they were said, suddenly made Carey understand what 
 was passing in the old man s mind. 
 
 He had felt so warm an affection and so deep a sym 
 pathy for Anna s father since her death that, to be sus 
 pected by him of being in any measure responsible for 
 it, was unspeakably unkind and unjust. An indignant 
 and angry flush rose to Carey s face. 
 
 "Before God, Mr. Blanchard, I am not the man you 
 are looking for!" 
 
 "One of the many, then," snarled the old man. 
 
 "No no no!" cried Carey, "that s not so!" The 
 coarseness of the accusation shocked him. 
 
 "You lie. Charley s wife caught you!" 
 
 Swift and vivid there rose before Carey s eyes the scene 
 of his last interrupted afternoon with Anna. Once more 
 he saw the face of Mrs. Charley Fillmore, as she stood 
 
THE AMATEUR 153 
 
 where Anna s father was now standing, grow white and 
 red, and then sharpen like a rat s, the eyes closing to half 
 slits, the nostrils quivering. 
 
 It was only a week ago ; it seemed months ! 
 
PART TWO 
 
PART TWO 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 T T was not until after he was at home that Carey 
 learned his father had died in the Hotel Breslin in 
 New York City. He and Jerry Hart had often gone 
 there from the theatre for supper in the cafe. On the 
 night that Princeton had beaten Yale in their annual 
 football battle, he had helped some Princeton enthusi 
 asts celebrate the victory into the early morning hours. 
 His father had had a suite in the same hotel, and must 
 have been ill at the very time Carey was boisterously 
 singing in the cafe with his friends of the night. It was 
 little more than a curious coincidence to him for a while. 
 The first regret that entered his heart came unexpectedly 
 with the advent of a letter from his father s attorneys. 
 
 Under his father s will he inherited twenty-two thou 
 sand dollars in five per cent bonds and all his personal 
 effects, including his books and music. 
 
 The heritage staggered Carey at first. It brought a 
 feeling of half pity, half affection, for the broken old 
 man lying in pain and weakness upon his last bed of sick 
 ness, while his son rioted below under the same roof. 
 His mother, who received nothing by the will, felt much 
 aggrieved, and took the attitude that it would be disloy- 
 
 157 
 
158 THE AMATEUR 
 
 alty to her if Carey accepted the legacy. Even from be 
 yond the grave, she feared Virgil Williams might wean 
 her boy away from her. While Carey could not sympa 
 thise with her view, he appreciated only too well that, in 
 taking the money, he would distress her. He decided, 
 .therefore, to refuse it. 
 
 Twenty-two thousand dollars meant nothing to him. 
 He had never expected the money and, between the effect 
 of the mental shock of Anna s death and the grateful, 
 soothing quiet of being at home again, it mattered little 
 to him who had it. He failed utterly to grasp the propor 
 tions of the inheritance. He wanted to please his mother. 
 Carey was not analytical of his own sense of morality. 
 He only felt vaguely that, in his old feeling for Anna, 
 he had been wrong, almost as wrong as Jerry Hart. He 
 felt that he had been tainted by the atmosphere in which 
 Anna and Jerry moved. Now he was back in the old, 
 clean air at home and, by refusing his legacy, he could 
 please his mother, and, at the same time, impress Joe with 
 his strength of character. Best of all, he could prove to 
 himself that he was not weak. The satisfaction his 
 mother plainly showed, and his own sense of virtuous 
 self-sacrifice, were ample compensation. 
 
 He spent Christmas quietly and happily at home and 
 succeeded in a measure in dispelling the gruesome mem 
 ory of the unhappy events that had preceded his departure 
 from New York. He had told Joe about the whole affair, 
 but his mother attributed the change in him to the effect 
 of his father s death. This nettled her. She was at 
 pains to refer to her late husband, when obliged to do 
 so, as "your unnatural father" or "that harsh and cruel 
 man, your father." Carey tried to be patient and respect 
 ful ; but at times it required all his self-control. He genu 
 inely loved her and keenly regretted that she found so 
 
THE AMATEUR 159 
 
 much annoyance and irritation in the conduct of her 
 business affairs. The property his father had deeded 
 to her at the time of the separation still brought her in 
 a comfortable living, but Carey was heartily glad he 
 was no longer dependent upon her. 
 
 As the train whirled him back to New York, he had 
 time to consider this and many other things. His first 
 half year in the great metropolis had taught him certain 
 hard lessons, and he had learnt something about life 
 from them. He felt immeasurably older and better 
 equipped to carve out his career. New York had become 
 infinitely dear to him. Eagerly he looked forward to 
 walking its streets again. He felt a certain proprietory 
 interest in it ; it was his New York, a city to which he 
 at last belonged, of which he was now a part, and which 
 he was gradually coming to understand. 
 
 The Hotel Imperial he selected for his temporary quar 
 ters until he could find a proper boarding house. There 
 was to be no return to Mamma Muggins . Apart from 
 the unpleasant association the house would always have, 
 there was the bitterness of Blanchard, which others might 
 have come to share. 
 
 He found what appeared to be a suitable boarding place 
 on West Twenty-second Street just off of Fifth Avenue. 
 There were three houses under the management of a 
 Mrs. Lulu Brown who, he came soon to learn, was called 
 "Babe" by every one she knew. She was a pretty woman, 
 blond and buxom, who gave the boarders to understand 
 from the outset that there was "no nonsense about her." 
 She employed a housekeeper and ran her establishment 
 on strictly business lines. Her boarders their number 
 varied from sixty to seventy-five consisted chiefly of 
 clerks, stenographers, professional suit-and-cloak models, 
 
i6o THE AMATEUR 
 
 book-keepers, insurance agents, young brokers, an occa 
 sional actress, and one or two trained nurses. Of the 
 entire number, there were only two married couples. 
 Mrs. Brown ruled her boarders like a school mistress. 
 No one was allowed to fall more than a week behind in 
 his board money and, at the first word of gossip regarding 
 any of those she housed, or the slightest suspicion that 
 they were indulging in what she was pleased to describe 
 as "philandering/ she made it a rule to immediately re 
 quest both offenders to leave her roof. 
 
 "No credit and no philandering in my house," she 
 informed Carey with a brusque little nod of her head. 
 "And you get real cream and eggs that ain t candled. 
 We re both blonds, so we ought to get along." 
 
 Carey was fortunate in securing a fairly good room on 
 the top floor. It was a hall bedroom, and he agreed to 
 pay twelve dollars a week for it. This was more than 
 he could afford, even if he got back his job of making 
 monograms. But he was determined to work as he never 
 had before, and rather enjoyed the stimulus that binding 
 himself to twelve dollars a week gave him. 
 
 He sent over to Mamma Muggins for his trunk and 
 drawing table and, when the expressman returned, it was 
 with difficulty that he restrained himself until the men 
 had left the room before opening the portfolios that con 
 tained his drawings, to examine again the two sets of 
 pictures he had done for Sherman. He was rather 
 pleased with them on the whole. They were not as good 
 as he had hoped, but they were far better than his pre 
 vious work. 
 
 On the following day, he took them over to Sherman s 
 office. Two of the pictures were still incomplete, but he 
 was too impatient to finish them. 
 
THE AMATEUR 161 
 
 Sherman was obviously pleased. He congratulated 
 Carey on taking the advice he had given him. 
 
 "That shows hard, conscientious work, my boy," he 
 said, patting Carey on the shoulder; "that s good stuff. 
 They re better pictures, I ll admit, than the ones we ran. 
 Although I must say," he continued with a twinkling 
 glance at Carey, "that you picked out about the worst 
 illustrations that ever appeared in the Consolidated 
 Weekly to try to beat. However, you ve satisfied me, 
 and I promise you a yarn. I haven t got one just now, 
 but the next one that comes in that I think you can do 
 I ll send along." 
 
 Happy, with springing feet, his heart and mind atune 
 to the tingling, crisp afternoon air, Carey fairly ran 
 down the street. He felt success within his grasp, pre 
 ferment now but a matter of months. 
 
 The fact that Ackerman, of Marks and Heineman, re 
 fused to see him and sent out word that he gave no work 
 to men he found to be unreliable, failed to quench his en 
 thusiasm. It reminded him, however, that he had left 
 New York without sending word to Ackerman of his 
 intention, and now, he supposed, the Jew was sore. He 
 told himself he would soon be independent of such 
 "squirt" advertising agencies as Marks and Heineman, 
 and, anyhow, it was too much for any one to expect him 
 to have known what he was about during that last week 
 in New York. 
 
 The next day, he started to make the round of the 
 magazines again, showing the illustrations he had drawn 
 at Sherman s suggestion. He did not think it amiss to 
 say to the various Art Editors he was permitted to see : 
 
 "These are a couple of sets of pictures I ve just fin 
 ished for Mr. Sherman of the Consolidated Press Syn 
 dicate." It implied that he was exhibiting them before 
 
162 THE AMATEUR 
 
 they were delivered to the Consolidated Press, that they 
 were the result of a genuine assignment. 
 
 The information had its effect. Art Editors gave him 
 more attention and were more courteous to him, but none 
 committed himself to anything further than asking him 
 to leave his name and address again. It was the same 
 with the advertising agencies. Two of the men he saw 
 remembered him and asked him if he was not the ar 
 tist who had at one time showed some reproductions of 
 vignettes for railway folders. They all told him to come 
 again and, although he failed to get any kind of a definite 
 assignment, he felt that he had at least made progress 
 toward gaining one. At length he sold one of the illus 
 trations he had done for Sherman to a religious paper 
 published in the Bible House. The picture happily il 
 lustrated a poem the editor of the children s department 
 had on hand. He received five dollars for it. By the end 
 of the second week, the money his mother had given him 
 at Christmas was spent. . "Babe" would allow him, he 
 knew, a week s grace, but, at the end of that time, if his 
 twelve dollars was not forthcoming, it was inevitable 
 that he should find himself, bag and baggage, out on the 
 sidewalk. It was after he had mustered up the necessary 
 courage to telephone Sherman and ask if the yarn he had 
 been promised had as yet put in an appearance and had 
 been told that so far there was "nothing doing," that the 
 thought of the legacy his father had left him came to him. 
 
 It was nine o clock in the morning, and he was still 
 in bed. The dining room in the basement closed at that 
 hour, but Carey had decided to breakfast at a Childs res 
 taurant on Twenty-third Street. For half-an-hour he 
 had lain awake, his hands locked beneath his head, staring 
 upwards at the discoloured ceiling above him, wondering 
 where he was to raise the twelve dollars he already owed 
 
THE AMATEUR 163 
 
 and the twelve that he would owe for the week follow 
 ing, and the one following that, when it came upon him 
 with a suddenness that brought him to the middle of the 
 floor with a bound, that he was a rich man if he but 
 wished to be one! Carey caught the reflection of his 
 ruddy face and his mop of yellow hair in the mirror. He 
 regarded his image dazedly for some moments, rubbing 
 the bright bristle on his chin that had appeared since last 
 he had shaved. 
 
 For the first time, he realised the proportions of what 
 he had renounced so lightly. It had not seemed a real 
 thing before. He had decided to refuse it as if it had 
 been a paltry twenty- two dollars instead of twenty-two 
 thousand! Twenty-two thousand! Why, it was a for 
 tune! He recalled with a wave of relief that he had 
 not even taken the trouble to reply to the attorneys let 
 ter! The matter had seemed of too little importance. 
 He could pay Joe Downer back the three hundred he 
 owed him immediately, and it would not be necessary 
 ever to tell his mother that he had accepted the money. 
 She could be led to think that he had made it by his Art, 
 and occasionally he could slip a hundred-dollar check into 
 a letter to her as a present! 
 
 His mind leaped from one possibility to another. 
 There was nothing he couldn t do ! Money made every 
 thing possible. He could pay Babe her twelve, and bid 
 her and her crowd of clerks and salesgirls good-bye for 
 ever, and he could have a studio of his own, with low 
 book shelves and a window seat with corduroy cushions, 
 an open fireplace and a Morris chair, and a student s 
 lamp ! He was rich ! He could tell them all "to go chase 
 themselves!" He was rich! He had twenty-two thou 
 sand dollars! 
 
 He dressed hastily, his heart singing. But, with all 
 
164 THE AMATEUR 
 
 his elation, there lurked within him a fear that ever grew 
 more persistent, that somehow he had forfeited the 
 money, that he had allowed it to slip through his ringers. 
 When he had shaved and put on his best suit, a white 
 cheviot shirt and a black silk cravat, he examined himself 
 critically in his mirror. His appearance producing in 
 a measure the effect he desired, he ran down stairs and 
 at Childs restaurant swallowed his coffee and butter- 
 cakes as fast as the excessive heat of both permitted. 
 As he boarded an up-town Broadway car, he noted that 
 all his cash in hand amounted to one dollar and ten cents. 
 
 At the Breslin, he interviewed the assistant manager 
 and learned that the firm s name of his father s attor 
 neys was Harris, Mooney and Merillon, and their address 
 was 35 Nassau Street. He arrived at their office a little 
 after eleven. 
 
 The result of his visit was not altogether satisfactory. 
 Mr. Merillon was very cordial, but he smiled at Carey s 
 assumption that the legacy was to be handed over at once. 
 
 "Due notice of your father s death, Mr. Williams, 
 must be given the publicity required by law, to allow 
 any unknown creditors your father may have to file their 
 claims against his estate. We were a little at a loss to 
 understand why we failed to receive a reply to the com 
 munication we addressed you in your home town, and 
 only yesterday we received a reply from our represen 
 tative there, who advised us that he had called upon your 
 mother, who informed him that you had decided to re 
 fuse it. As there were no restrictions made by your 
 father regarding ..." 
 
 "I ve changed my mind," Carey said, feeling the colour 
 rising in his face. 
 
 "I m glad of that," Mr. Merillon continued, "but you 
 must understand that at least ten months or a year must 
 
THE AMATEUR 165 
 
 elapse before your father s estate can be apportioned as 
 he desired. We, as his executors, could not possibly dis 
 burse any part of his property prior to that. However, 
 as your father was not engaged in active business, and we 
 have been conversant with his affairs for some years, it 
 may be that my partners will decide to help you out of 
 your present difficulties. Your father s personal effects 
 may be turned over to you at once. His widow, after 
 consultation with us, arranged to have these crated. I 
 am not certain whether they have been removed as yet 
 to the storage warehouse where it was decided to send 
 them until we heard from you regarding their disposition. 
 If you will call on Saturday, I will be able to tell you 
 about them and advise you of our decision as to ad 
 vancing you sufficient funds to tide you over for the 
 present." 
 
 The intervening days were full of excitement for 
 Carey. On Saturday, "Babe" Brown would expect his 
 board. His fate, of such little importance to any one in 
 that vast, seething city rested with his father s attor 
 neys. He did not worry about it, however. He was too 
 excited to do any work, so he spent his time looking at 
 vacant studios. He found this a fascinating amusement. 
 Not knowing what his income was to be, he had no 
 idea of what he could afford. The rents appalled him, 
 particularly as he soon realised that he would be put to 
 the expense of furnishing. He alternated his inspection 
 of studios with visits to the antique furniture shops 
 on Fourth Avenue and the second-hand furniture dealers 
 on Third. He planned a hundred different schemes of 
 furnishing a hundred different studios. 
 
 He met McNeil and French in one of these Third Ave 
 nue stores, haggling with the dealer over the price of a 
 large walnut dresser. Not being certain of their recep- 
 
166 THE AMATEUR 
 
 tion of him, Carey sauntered out into the street, hoping 
 to give the impression that he had not observed them; 
 but French came running after him. They were both 
 glad to see him ; when had he returned ? Where was he 
 living? They were going housekeeping in a flat just 
 the two of them. The Fillmore house was going down 
 hill. Vernaught and Washburn had moved away and 
 Mamma Muggins and Miss Watt in their heavy black put 
 an "awful crusher on any sort of a joke." It was dis 
 mal. They had had to get in an upstairs girl to do Anna s 
 work and were obliged to help themselves ! Anna, whom 
 they had treated like a drudge while she was alive, they 
 had begun to appreciate now they had to pay some 
 one to come in to do her work! There had been no 
 word from Jerry Hart. McNeil wasn t sure he had 
 heard a thing about the whole affair. 
 
 The meeting cheered Carey. They had spoken of an 
 evening at Hammerstein s with them, and Carey would 
 have enjoyed it ; but his purse now contained only twenty 
 cents, and he was obliged to tell them that, for a while, 
 he was broke. He made up his mind to give them a 
 "bang-up" party when he came into his money. 
 
 On Saturday he saw Mr. Merillon. The semi-annual 
 interest from the twenty-two bonds fell due on January 
 ist, and the coupons were still to be cashed. If this sum 
 would help Carey for the time being, the executors, so 
 Mr. Merillon explained, would be very glad to deposit the 
 amount to his credit at whatever bank he chose. 
 
 "And that would amount to ?" asked Carey. 
 
 "Five hundred and fifty dollars." 
 
 He had hoped it was going to be considerably more 
 than that. However, it was a God-send just at the pres 
 ent. He left with the cheque in his pocket. 
 
 Among the various vacant studios he had visited, he 
 
THE AMATEUR 167 
 
 had found one in a large rambling building on Seventh 
 Avenue, devoted entirely to artists quarters. It was 
 called The Rembrandt Studios. It contained nearly a 
 hundred small apartments that rented at thirty-five to 
 forty-five dollars a month; each was equipped with a 
 bath and kitchenette. They were designed for light 
 housekeeping, and Carey saw himself cooking his own 
 breakfasts and lunches over the diminutive gas stove, and 
 eating his dinners at some cheap restaurant. The chief 
 attraction about the place was the size of the studio it 
 self, which was about twenty by thirty feet. There was 
 a large skylight, like an immense dormer window, and, al 
 though there was no fireplace, there were two steam ra 
 diators, and plenty of hot water. 
 
 The deciding factor in persuading Carey to select these 
 quarters was that his neighbours would be artists like him 
 self. Some of the names on the letter boxes downstairs 
 he recognised as those of successful illustrators, whose 
 work was constantly appearing in the weeklies and some 
 of the monthlies. Particularly was he familiar with the 
 illustrations of Fleming Springer, and the Neidlingers, 
 both of whom drew, the wash drawings of Arthur Wil 
 liam Brooks, and the comic pen-and-inks of Mark 
 Harrison. Besides artists, a number of musicians found 
 quarters in the Rembrandt Studios. Carey had heard 
 them at their vocalising and their scales on his first visit. 
 The atmosphere of the place appealed to him. He would 
 be in his own element, among those with whom he be 
 longed. He told himself he was slowly mounting the 
 rungs toward success, and the Rembrandt Studios con 
 stituted a phase in his progress to an apartment of his 
 own, and thence to an establishment like Gregory Shil 
 ling s. It would all come, perhaps slowly, but, neverthe 
 less, it would come ! 
 
i68 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Carey moved on the following Saturday. He found 
 great pleasure in buying sheets and blankets and towels 
 and pots and saucepans, and in laying in a small supply 
 of coffee and condensed milk, canned beans and soups. 
 He bought a couch at Macy s, and a small table, a chest 
 of drawers and a couple of chairs at the second-hand 
 furniture dealer s on Third Avenue. For some time he 
 hesitated over an eighteen-dollar rag rug he saw at Wana- 
 maker s, but finally succumbed to its warm tones and 
 bought it. Curtains presented a difficult problem. Be 
 side the skylight, the studio possessed two windows that 
 faced upon a narrow air-well. With the shades drawn, 
 the room was close and stuffy; raised, they exposed the 
 ugly brick wall of the well. At Wanamaker s he found 
 a soft, golden brown texture that the clerk had described 
 as "aurora cloth." A week after he moved in, he sent 
 an order to the department store to have the windows 
 measured and the curtains made. 
 
 Gradually he became settled in his new quarters, but, 
 after the interest of moving in and furnishing the studio 
 had passed, a feeling of loneliness and isolation de 
 scended upon him. He longed for companionship. He 
 missed Joe Downer and Jerry Hart; he would have felt 
 grateful for an evening with French and McNeil. They, 
 however, had moved away from the Fillmore s and had 
 begun their experience of keeping house. He had lost 
 their new address. He began to realise how few per 
 sons in New York he knew, and of these not one could 
 he count on as a real friend. 
 
 Behind the closed doors of the studios in The Rem 
 brandt came the noise of young laughter and high spirits; 
 odours of appetizing dishes, entrancing smells of cooking 
 food, filtered through the halls at meal time ; a girl in a 
 painter s smock would fling open a door as he, perhaps, 
 
THE AMATEUR 169 
 
 was passing by and, springing lightly across the inter 
 vening hall, bang loudly and peremptorily upon that of 
 a neighbour s, to borrow a tube of paint, or an onion, or 
 a cup of kerosene for the lamp. But no one invited him 
 to partake of the fragrant suppers, or spoke to him 
 as he wandered in and out of the building. He felt 
 "out of it," lonely and despondent. 
 
 In such a mood of depression it occurred to him that 
 his father s personal effects, his books and music, had, in 
 addition to the bonds, been bequeathed to him, and that, 
 though he might not be particularly anxious to become 
 their owner, it was unquestionably his duty to claim them. 
 He therefore telephoned Merillon, one morning toward 
 the end of February. Merillon advised him to apply to 
 the manager of the Hotel Breslin who, he understood, had 
 had the clothing, effects, books and music belonging to 
 Mr. Virgil Williams put in storage awaiting directions re 
 garding them from the attorneys of the deceased man. 
 Carey was sent by the hotel manager to the undertakers 
 who furnished him with an order on the warehouse com 
 pany. 
 
 Several days passed before the crates containing his 
 father s few personal belongings finally arrived at The 
 Rembrandt Studios. There were seven of them and, af 
 ter he had tipped the expressmen who had carried 
 them up from the street to his own studio, he stared 
 rather blankly at the great square boxes, almost as tall 
 as himself, that sat squat and uncompromising in the 
 middle of his little home. 
 
 Carey had no idea what constituted the personal ef 
 fects of a man such as his father had been, until he came 
 to investigate the contents of these boxes. As he un 
 folded the coats and vests and trousers, and piled the 
 stiff-bosomed shirts and underclothes, there came to him 
 
170 THE AMATEUR 
 
 a depressing sense of having failed the man who had 
 left him these things. The woman whom he had made 
 his second wife, the dying man foresaw, would take her 
 share of his money and leave his body to the under 
 takers, concerning herself only with her own welfare. 
 Virgil Williams undoubtedly hoped that, in return for 
 the unexpectedly generous amount he had left his son, 
 the boy would attend to the disposition of his clothing 
 and intimate belongings, sensing his father s aversion to 
 having these handled by servants and the hirelings of un 
 dertakers. Carey understood all this now; it was as 
 palpable to him as though his father had written him a 
 last letter of his wishes. 
 
 As Carey unpacked the clothing, there emanated from 
 it a faint aroma that brought back the man who had worn 
 it as vividly as if the days when Carey was still a school 
 boy and his father painfully and slowly climbed the 
 stairs, blind with a sick headache, were but a week or 
 so ago. The sweat stains under the armpits on the lining 
 of a vest supplied the last intimate touch that enabled 
 Carey to recall his vigorous character and personality. 
 It stirred within him a welcome affection for the man 
 whose son he was. His father might have done wrong, 
 might have treated his mother shabbily, ignored and neg 
 lected himself for years, and yet, upon his deathbed, he 
 had thought of Carey and left all these things to him, 
 not to treasure and preserve he understood his father s 
 purpose well enough for that but to dispose of as 
 seemed advisable, as his own son chose. There was 
 something extremely appealing to Carey about this simple 
 trust. His father was dead two months, and his son did 
 not even know where he had been buried ! 
 
 Three of the cases contained books. They had been 
 well selected, and some of them very beautifully bound. 
 
THE AMATEUR 171 
 
 The greater portion dealt with art or music, while there 
 were a number of histories and almost a complete col 
 lection of the works of the English poets. There were 
 some thirty volumes of Baedeker. A fourth case was 
 filled with music. In this were scores of nearly all the 
 operas and a great quantity of European editions of the 
 compositions of Bach, Beethoven, dementi, Scarlatti, 
 Brahms, Schumann and Chopin, each portfolio carefully 
 tied with a linen ribbon to keep the loose pages together. 
 Only an ardent music lover would have taken such pains. 
 For sixteen dollars, Carey had some low book shelves 
 built along one side of the studio, and he spent two days 
 painting and varnishing them. The books and music 
 gave the studio an atmosphere of completeness and cosi 
 ness. He was delighted with the effect. He determined 
 to have some loose curtains of monk s cloth made for 
 the book cases as soon as he came into his money. The 
 joy he derived from the companionable backs of the 
 rows of books grew from day to day. He tried to read 
 some of the ones dealing with art, but they failed to in 
 terest him. They dealt with Greek and Roman achieve 
 ments, heavy volumes containing intaglio reproductions 
 of the Parthenon, the Arch of Titus, the Forum at Pom 
 peii, the pictures protected by fine tissue paper, the legends 
 printed thereon in red italics. Other books dealt with 
 the work of the Pre-Raphaelites, and there were portfo 
 lios containing large engravings of the details from the 
 mural paintings in the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel and 
 the room of the Borgias. There were also collections of 
 reproductions of the masterpieces in The Louvre, the 
 great paintings in the Luxemburg Galleries, notable pic 
 tures of the French Salon, Women in French Art, the 
 latter in magazine form to which Virgil Williams had 
 evidently subscribed for years. Every other picture in 
 
172 THE AMATEUR 
 
 these books seemed to Carey to be by Bouguereau, whose 
 fat, round-eyed, sheep-faced women irritated him curi 
 ously. 
 
 He wondered a little that these reproductions of great 
 masterpieces left him so cold. It was as if Art was not 
 his profession and that he pursued another calling. Had 
 he stumbled across one picture by Walter Madison Parke 
 he would have been thrilled to the core of his being. 
 They were illustrators: Parke, the master; Carey Wil 
 liams, the humble student. It occurred to him for the 
 first time that the work of the illustrator is an art by it 
 self. He thought about this a great deal and the more 
 he considered it, the more he was convinced it was so. 
 
 His father s clothing he separated into two bundles. 
 One of these he sent to the Salvation Army, the other 
 he took to a neighbouring tailor who assured him it would 
 be a simple matter to alter them to fit himself : three busi 
 ness suits, a frock coat, and some white vests. Carey 
 felt sure that his father would have been glad to have 
 him wear them. 
 
 From the undertaker, he learned that his father was 
 buried in Mount Kisco Cemetery, and on Sunday he 
 made his pilgrimage to the grave. There had. been a 
 heavy snow and it was biting cold. Drifts had piled 
 themselves against the frozen monuments, obliterating 
 the smaller ones, covering the ground in a series of undu 
 lating dunes with a smothering whiteness. A high, 
 rioting wind swept out of the north, and the fine dry par 
 ticles of snow swirled about among the half -covered 
 marbles and mausoleums, leaping across the wide, circling 
 roads, spinning up toward the low, dull-grey clouds, like 
 flying, tossing manes of galloping white horses. Carey 
 bent his head against it and stumbled on through the en- 
 
THE AMATEUR 173 
 
 cumbering drifts, pulling one foot after another out of 
 the ankle-deep piles that had gathered in the roadway. 
 
 There had been no satisfaction in standing before a 
 few square yards of whiteness, and in realising that be 
 neath it and some additional feet of hard, frozen earth, 
 his father s body lay, an organism that had suffered so 
 much pain, that had known bitterness and disappoint 
 ment, disillusion and unrealised hopes. What was it all 
 for? A man lived, begot and died. No one mourned 
 him. This one s first wife hated him; his second, having 
 secured the bulk of his money, despised him! His son? 
 
 Carey felt acutely sorry for him. He guessed the 
 tragedy of his father s life, the dreadful emptiness of it. 
 It was like the wind-swept, snow-covered cemetery : only 
 dead things remained; even the memories of joys and 
 emotions that once had thrilled and swayed the living 
 body had been slowly wiped away, obliterated as the 
 snow effaced the outlines of the monuments that had been 
 so carefully chiselled and fashioned, and had been so 
 lovingly placed there. 
 
 The boy turned away, the wind howling at his back, 
 pushing him eagerly along, hurrying him down the wind 
 ing road, as though it resented his living presence within 
 the city of the dead. 
 
 When the bonds were turned over to him, Carey re 
 solved that one of them should go to erect a simple stone 
 beside his father s grave. No one should know about it 
 but himself; he would not even tell Joe. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A FINAL extravagance in the shape of a beautifully- 
 shaped bronze lamp with a maroon and green shade 
 brought Carey to the abrupt realisation that, in two 
 months, he had spent all but about a hundred dollars of 
 the sum his father s attorneys had allowed him. The 
 lamp he had found in a curious and dirty junk shop on 
 Houston Street. The dealer had wanted forty dollars 
 for it, and the fact that Carey had beaten him down to 
 twenty-five and, further, that he knew that the lamp was 
 worth at least twice what the dealer asked originally, 
 seemed to furnish irrefutable arguments in favour of his 
 becoming its immediate owner. 
 
 But, after he had cleaned it and filled it with oil and ad 
 justed its wicks and admired the soft, gracious radiance 
 that filtered through the maroon and green shade, he was 
 obliged to consider once more the problem of existence. 
 
 Since he had returned to New York, he had not 
 touched his work. Week after week had slipped away 
 while he hoped that some morning s mail would bring 
 him a commission from Sherman. He had written the 
 Art Editor informing him of his new address and ex 
 pressing the hope that a story would present itself shortly 
 with which he might be trusted ; but he had had no reply. 
 The necessity of following this up or of peddling his 
 work again among the magazines and advertising agen- 
 
 174 
 
THE AMATEUR 175 
 
 cies did not seem as imperative as it had done in view of 
 the pile of fifty- and twenty-dollar bills that had lain at 
 the bottom of his handkerchief drawer. The longer he 
 idled, the more impossible did it seem for him to buckle 
 down to his work again. All the fire of his enthusiasm 
 was gone. He spent much of his time at the theatres, oc 
 cupying gallery seats, buying his ticket two and three 
 weeks in advance to be sure of a front seat. After the 
 final curtain fell and he hurried with the rest of the audi 
 ence to the street, it was always a dismal moment when 
 the others rapidly disappeared, hastening to their homes 
 or to noisy, merry suppers, leaving him sauntering along 
 the sidewalk with perhaps no more definite aim than to 
 go back to his cheerless room in The Rembrandt Studios, 
 open a bottle of beer and drink it by himself. 
 
 Among his extravagances during the first month of 
 his tenancy in The Rembrandt Studios had been a water 
 colour box. It was unusually complete, with some forty 
 different colours, and contained various fascinating porce 
 lain saucers that seemed to invite the mixing of the little* 
 brick pigments. Carey had not tried his hand at water 
 colours since the sketching tour during which he had made 
 the friendship of Joe Downer. He had always wanted 
 to experiment with them, however, and now, dully and 
 listlessly, he turned to his new box, hoping that, through 
 what amusement the working in this unfamiliar medium 
 might afford, he would find an idea or an inspiration that 
 would help him get back to serious work. 
 
 For some time he sat before his drawing table, pencil 
 in hand, gazing stupidly at the neatly thumb-tacked sheet 
 of Watman s paper upon it, vaguely attempting to think 
 of a suitable subject to lay in which he could work up 
 later in water colours. He was trying to recall a bit 
 of landscape he had once done for Professor Eschen, 
 
176 THE AMATEUR 
 
 with which the old man had been greatly pleased, when 
 a knock came at the door. Since his arrival at The 
 Rembrandt Studios, Carey had constantly received calls 
 from men, women and children seeking model hire. The 
 men were usually white-haired, with ample flowing 
 beards ; the women, either elderly or flirtatious ; the chil 
 dren, red-cheeked, in Fauntleroy suits, accompanied by 
 their mothers who resented any admiration for their off 
 springs less ardent than their own. But the girl who an 
 swered Carey s shout of "Come in" was a different type 
 from any of these. He saw the frightened look that 
 swept the room, including everything in it but himself, 
 and the shaking hand that caught the ends of the piece 
 of fur she wore at the throat. She stood on the thresh 
 old, half leaning against the door jamb, her other hand 
 still upon the knob. Carey stared at her, fascinated by 
 the picture she unconsciously made. Suddenly the girl s 
 roving eyes rested upon him. Swiftly, with simultaneous 
 gesture of hand and foot, she stepped back into the hall, 
 shutting the door firmly after her. Carey, for an instant, 
 continued his stare at the blank surface of the door. 
 Then he sprang up, leaped across the room, flung it open, 
 in time to see her slim figure hurrying down the hall. 
 
 "Wait a minute!" he called. She stopped, half turn 
 ing toward him ; shrinking perceptibly closer to the wall 
 as he came up to her. 
 
 "If you want a job as model, I m looking for one." 
 Not till then was he aware of the appealing beauty of her 
 face. It was not the composed, sedate beauty of little 
 Jane Boardman. This girl was an Irish type, a thin oval 
 face and grey eyes, with heavy, dark-bronze brows and 
 lashes. Her hair, the most noticeable characteristic she 
 possessed, was a dull red. Carey, as he stood before her, 
 was conscious only of an urgent desire to convince this 
 
THE AMATEUR 177 
 
 girl that he did not belong to the class of men she instinc 
 tively feared. 
 
 Swiftly she flashed him a look, and he smiled at her 
 boyishly and frankly. 
 
 "You don t know much about this business," he said 
 ingratiatingly. "You need not be afraid of me. You re 
 just the type of a model I want/ 
 
 Without raising her eyes again, the girl walked toward 
 the open door of his studio. Carey followed; but, as he 
 shut the door behind him, some of her embarrassment 
 and constraint communicated itself to him. When she 
 had removed her hat and slipped out of the long, loose 
 coat she wore, Carey found, in the quaint, awkward 
 movements of her hips and shoulders, convincing evi 
 dence of the unsophistication and naivete he had noticed 
 in her face. Her hair was remarkable. It was lustre 
 less, possessing a frosted quality, like the mark of a per 
 son s breath upon a window glass: a dull brick red. 
 She wore it in two heavy braids, wound about her head 
 like a double halo. Her dress was blue serge, obviously 
 of the department store s basement type, but relieved by 
 white linen cuffs and turned-down collar. Her gestures, 
 as she raised her arms for a moment to pat the heavy red 
 ropes that lay coiled upon her head, were charming in 
 their curious angularity and sexless grace. 
 
 It was evident to Carey she did not know what was 
 expected of her. He was unaware, however, of the ex 
 tent of her agitation until, raising his head from the proc 
 ess of putting a delicate point on his pencil, he observed 
 again the violent trembling of her hand. His anxiety to 
 relieve her of her distress made him almost as nervous 
 as she was. 
 
 "Darn it! She s only a model after all!" said Carey 
 
178 THE AMATEUR 
 
 to himself, fussing over his brushes. And, suddenly 
 turning to face her, he spoke almost roughly : ~ 
 
 "Look here, Miss er , Miss er please get wise. 
 I m not going to embarrass you. I m not that kind. You 
 came here on business and, at the end of your work, I ll 
 pay you a dollar and a half for each hour you ve been 
 posing. Now, all I want of you is to do a study of your 
 head. If I don t finish it to-day, I ll ask you to come to 
 morrow. If you are going to act like a frightened rab 
 bit, you can go find some other artist who won t be trou 
 bled by your nervousness. . . . Now, please sit there 
 and look over at that lamp. Turn your head a little 
 more to the right a little more still, now, raise your 
 chin. There, that s excellent. Please tell me when you 
 are tired." 
 
 Rapidly he sketched in the head, following the style he 
 had used in the drawing of Jerry Hart, Sherman had 
 praised. It came easily and brilliantly. When it was 
 half blocked in, he felt that, as usual, it possessed a cer 
 tain quality that his finished work always lacked. So far, 
 it might easily have passed for the preliminary sketch 
 made by a far more able artist. As he worked, there 
 arose within him that desire for creation that had been 
 totally lacking for so many weeks. The girl s hair fasci 
 nated him ; he was eager to match the tone of lustreless 
 red, to catch the Irish charm of the grey eyes with the 
 thick, long, bronze lashes. His lack of experience with 
 water colour did not occur to him as he laid aside his 
 pencil and turned to his new, clean tin box. 
 
 He progressed with surprising rapidity, and a certain 
 exhilarating sense of elation began to possess him. He 
 feft he had been successful in catching the girl s expres 
 sion, which was both winsome and appealing. But, when 
 he commenced to work up the drawing, he became aware 
 
THE AMATEUR 179 
 
 of his limitations, his un familiarity with his medium. It 
 required infinite pains in adding one tone to another after 
 the first one had dried. Try as he would, the freedom 
 the sketch had displayed began slowly to escape him and 
 his work to tighten up. In despair, he tilted back in his 
 chair and gazed discouragedly at the half -completed 
 drawing. He decided he was in too excited a condition, 
 and it would be better to ask the girl to come back on 
 the following day and finish the head then. He could 
 not resist the temptation, however, of trying his hand 
 at the dull glory of her hair at once. 
 
 After she had rested, he began to experiment with his 
 colours, mixing various shades of red with Chinese white 
 to destroy any brilliancy the paint might possess. The 
 exact shade evaded him. The colour in the mixing bowl 
 repeatedly seemed satisfactory, only to dry to a lighter 
 or a darker tone upon the paper. The edges of the draw 
 ing sheet in front of him were covered by his various 
 tests. Upon the floor, within reach, lay the wrappings in 
 which the new lamp had arrived that morning. A piece 
 of stiff brown strawboard protruded from the debris, 
 and Carey, searching for something upon which to try 
 a new colour combination, drew it toward him. 
 
 The strawboard instantly absorbed the moisture and 
 left the colour an even, flat tone of perfect smoothness, 
 the exact gradation in shade he wanted. 
 
 But Carey could not get the same effect upon the Wat- 
 man paper. It took him some time to convince himself 
 of this. Also he discovered that it was practically im 
 possible to maintain the same quality of a certain shade 
 upon the water colour paper, whereas, on the strawboard, 
 it proved a simple matter. In disgust he closed his paint 
 box, determined to let the matter wait over a day. 
 
 While he had been working over the red colour combi- 
 
180 THE AMATEUR 
 
 nations, he had told the girl to abandon the pose and to 
 rest until he wanted her again. Now he turned to find 
 her crouching by the book case, a volume belonging to his 
 father open upon her knee. She was absorbed in her 
 reading, and Carey watched her, amused and silent, while 
 she turned one page after another. Gradually the in- 
 tentness of his gaze burnt itself into her consciousness. 
 She turned with a frightened gesture, the book falling 
 to the floor, the blood sweeping her face. 
 
 "That s all right. Don t look so scared," Carey said 
 reassuringly. "I was studying the composition you made 
 as you knelt there. It was interesting. I should like to 
 try my hand at it some time. I m all through for to-day. 
 You can come to-morrow? At ten? That s excellent. 
 Here are your three dollars. I hope you don t find the 
 work too fatiguing." 
 
 Not until she was gone did he realise that she had not 
 once spoken. She had not even left him her name and 
 address. Had he been less interested in his work, he 
 might have been more curious about her. As it was, 
 beyond thinking that she was rather a funny girl, too self- 
 conscious ever to make a successful model, he dismissed 
 her from his mind and turned eagerly to the strawboard. 
 
 It was of rather peculiar texture, heavy in weave, but 
 free from the fibrous fuzz that usually covers the surface 
 of strawboards. It was lighter in colour also, having a 
 pale, brownish-grey shade, like the mats used by picture 
 f ramers for photographs. It was as absorbent as a blot 
 ter, and he found that even the thinnest colour, when 
 mixed with Chinese white, registered satisfactorily. It 
 needed the Chinese white, however, for without it the 
 colour was absorbed with the water. He began to experi 
 ment with flat tones, and the more he worked the more 
 excited he became. The effect was astonishing. The 
 
THE AMATEUR 181 
 
 colour could be laid on as evenly as though it was pasted 
 there like a strip of paper. The result was eminently 
 satisfactory; it lent itself to the most brilliant poster 
 treatments. 
 
 Among his father s books, that from which he de 
 rived the greatest pleasure was a volume containing in 
 numerable miniature reproductions of the covers and 
 coloured inserts of the German periodical, Jug end. It 
 represented the work of the modern German artists, and 
 Carey was fascinated by the originality and boldness of 
 their style. He got out this book now, and began to copy 
 some of the designs that appealed to him. He had to sup 
 ply his own colour schemes, but this he found, with the 
 help of the absorbent quality of the strawboard and his 
 own idea of mixing his colours with Chinese white, to be 
 the most interesting part of the work. What gave him 
 the greatest satisfaction was that this new way of work 
 ing, the flat tones and the poster treatment, hid his great 
 weakness, the tightness of his drawing. When the last 
 ray of afternoon light was gone, he found he had used 
 up all the strawboard, even some of the broken bits no 
 bigger than his hand. He was very tired, but very happy. 
 It did not matter to him that his elation arose from the 
 discovery of a trick. He did not know just what he had 
 accomplished. Something told him he had made a dis 
 covery that would please the Art Editors ; but he wasn t 
 sure about it. 
 
 In the middle of the night he awoke and lay for some 
 time gazing up into the darkness, fearing to get up and 
 look at his new work lest he should find he had been mis 
 taken in it. The sudden doubt as to whether or not it 
 would reproduce filled him with such apprehension that 
 he forgot his mistrust and, springing up, switched on the 
 light. For a long time he studied the hastily made 
 
182 THE AMATEUR 
 
 sketches of the previous afternoon, and finally went back 
 to bed satisfied and happy. He was not certain about the 
 reproductive quality of his new style ; but, with his work 
 itself, he was more than pleased. The dull, lustreless, 
 flat tones against the brownish-grey of the strawboard 
 were vividly effective. If his work could not be repro 
 duced, he was certain he could sell it to the art dealers. 
 
 In the morning, he visited the junk shop where he had 
 bought the lamp and, after much difficulty, persuaded 
 the suspicious old Jewish proprietor to tell him the name 
 of the paper house where he bought his wrapping paper 
 and strawboard. There he purchased two bundles of the 
 material, paying a dollar and a quarter for each bundle 
 of a hundred sheets. He was back at his studio before 
 ten. 
 
 Promptly on the stroke of the hour, the girl arrived. 
 Although still shy and irritatingly timid, she had not the 
 same distrust of him. Silently she assumed the pose, and 
 silently Carey plunged into his work. In less than an 
 hour the drawing was completed, and Carey began an 
 other, finishing it by noon. He dared not allow himself 
 to speculate on how well he had succeeded. He only 
 realised he was radiantly happy, that the world was 
 young and gracious, and that his red-headed model was 
 the most beautiful girl in the world. He tried to get her 
 interested in himself. As he worked, he talked to her, 
 telling her of his life at home, of his mother, of Joe, 
 of how he used to long to come to New York, and how 
 at last he had realised his wish and was now trying to get 
 a foothold in that teeming city. Only when he came to 
 speak of his father did he meet with any response from 
 her. 
 
 "They belonged to your father?" It was the first 
 words she had spoken, and her voice had a quaint Irish 
 
THE AMATEUR 183 
 
 burr that Carey thought enchanting. She indicated the 
 books as she spoke, and Carey nodded. 
 
 "The music is wonderful. I looked at some of it yes 
 terday. You have all the Wagner scores." Her voice 
 was warm and husky, but it betrayed the admiration she 
 could not otherwise express. 
 
 "You are fond of music?" Carey asked. 
 
 Her swift glance was answer enough. 
 
 "Well, why don t you take some of it home with you?" 
 he suggested. "I don t play, and I shouldn t understand 
 it if I did." 
 
 The girl shook her head firmly, compressing her lips. 
 But she did not speak. Carey decided that she dared not 
 accept from him a loan of what to her seemed so infinitely 
 desirable. Presently he asked her her name. There was 
 a quick change of colour in her face before she an 
 swered. 
 
 "Cecilia Shaughnessy." 
 
 She gave him her address and telephone number ; but, 
 when he asked her about what previous experience she 
 had had as a model, she shook her head again. She was 
 like a child during its first day at school. Her shyness 
 rose up as a barrier between them at the first personal 
 word about herself. Carey was filled, however, with 
 the desire to share his exuberance of spirits. He would 
 have enjoyed making love to her for the satisfaction of 
 giving vent to the emotional ecstasy that possessed him. 
 He knew, however, that one wrong word would make 
 an end of her visits. 
 
 Sherman had not come in from lunch when Carey 
 asked for him at the offices of the Consolidated Press 
 Syndicate early in the afternoon. He had carefully 
 wrapped the two drawings separately, determined to 
 
184 THE AMATEUR 
 
 show one to Sherman and the other to Ben Mercy. He 
 would thus obtain the opinion of two experts, and, if 
 neither agreed with him as to the unusual quality of his 
 new work, he would know the worst at once. He was 
 still under the influence of the morning s excitement, and 
 the time appeared unending before Sherman swung open 
 the glass door to the outer office and, catching sight of 
 Carey, said, with his Scotch twinkle brightening his eye : 
 
 "Hello, Mr. Indefatigable ! You here again?" 
 
 "I ve got something . . .," began Carey; but Sher 
 man cut him off in his brusque manner and jerked his 
 head toward the inner office. 
 
 Following the Art Editor, Carey met little Jane Board- 
 man in the passage way. They gripped hands warmly, a 
 smile of frank pleasure on both faces. It was only a 
 half -minute s encounter, just long enough for the girl to 
 say: 
 
 "I thought you were coming to see me," and for Carey 
 to answer : "I certainly intend to. I ll come next week." 
 
 In the Editor s office, his hand trembled so, as he picked 
 at a troublesome knot in the string about the drawing, 
 that he was obliged to use the shears on Sherman s desk. 
 
 "I remember I promised you a yarn, Mr. Williams," 
 the Art Editor was saying. "There hasn t been one that s 
 come in yet that you would want to tackle. The last two 
 were both about babies, and I know you d prefer a fair 
 chance in the first story I send you." 
 
 Carey crushed the wrapping paper he had stripped 
 from the drawing between his hands, tilted the piece of 
 strawboard forward to get the proper angle of light, and 
 stepped back to give Sherman a clear view. 
 
 The Art Editor looked at the drawing a moment, 
 squinted his eyes at it, picked it up, ran his thumb over 
 the surface of the board, turned it over to examine the 
 
THE AMATEUR 185 
 
 other side, shot Carey a quizzical look, and set it down 
 again. For some moments he sat looking at it, his face 
 hard and sharp, his eyes screwed up into a half pucker, 
 half squint. Then he said : 
 
 "This is mighty effective, Williams. You ve drawn a 
 beautiful face. I like your flat treatment. That s very 
 odd that s very distinguished. That hair that s great ! 
 How the devil . . . But I won t ask. It s your secret 
 ... I want to show this to our circulation man. Wait 
 a moment." 
 
 Carey waited a long time. He was aglow with Sher 
 man s praise; but it was so long before the Art Editor 
 returned that he began to wonder whether he had not as 
 sumed too much. But Sherman s face was full of his 
 merry twinkle when he came back. 
 
 "For once," he said, "our circulation manager and I 
 agree. We ll be glad to accept this for a cover, Mr. Wil 
 liams, and we want some more like it." 
 
 Without replying, Carey snapped the string that bound 
 the other head intended for Ben Mercy, and slid it out 
 of its paper covering. 
 
 Sherman laughed. 
 
 "You take a fellow up mighty quick, sir ! . . . But I 
 like this one better than the first." He bent closer to the 
 drawing. "By George, that colour is as even as if it had 
 been poured out of a pitcher! You ve got a great stunt 
 there, Williams! . . . Let me show em this one. I 
 hope they ll like it as much as I do !" 
 
 This time he returned almost at once. He nodded his 
 head at Carey, the smile hidden by his sandy beard shin 
 ing out through the twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 "We want em both, Williams. Our circulation man 
 is enthusiastic about them. He thinks they have great 
 news stand value. I shouldn t be surprised if he is right. 
 
i86 THE AMATEUR 
 
 As a rule, we like to get our covers for fifty dollars 
 apiece, but we re so pleased with these that we are going 
 to raise that to seventy-five. Make some more like em. 
 A series would be a good advertisement for both of us." 
 
 Carey was broadly grinning. 
 
 "I knew they were good, at least I thought they 
 were ; but I was afraid you d say that the texture of the 
 board I used would make them difficult to reproduce." 
 
 Sherman squinted his eyes again at the two pictures 
 and shook his head. 
 
 "It may even look better in the reproduction than it 
 does in the original." 
 
 Life took on a new interest for Carey. On the fol 
 lowing morning when Cecilia arrived, he commenced a 
 more elaborate composition than he had as yet attempted. 
 It was elaborate in that it included more of her figure, 
 but it was laid out on the same simple lines as the first two 
 he had drawn. As he worked, a multitude of ideas for 
 different colour schemes and different arrangements of 
 her head and hair occurred to him. He foresaw that he 
 could paint her in an infinite variety of costumes, smiling 
 or sad, coquettish or serious, as he chose. There would 
 be no end to the various combinations. 
 
 It was several days later that Cecilia reached Carey s 
 studio at the accustomed hour in a manifestly agitated 
 state of mind. Twice during the sitting she was obliged 
 to wipe her brimming eyes, and to ask, in a low, husky 
 voice, to be excused for it. Carey had an intuitive under 
 standing of women. His attitude toward them was al 
 ways deferential and courteous. Something withheld 
 him from prying into Cecilia s life and history, which 
 she obviously regarded as her own affair. On her first 
 visit, he realised that his brusque manner had been hap- 
 
THE AMATEUR 187 
 
 pily the only one which could have persuaded her to 
 enter his studio. He had tried to draw her out by telling 
 her about himself; but to his confidences she made no re 
 sponse. She interested him because she was reserved, 
 and because she clearly had had little or no former ex 
 perience as a model; but particularly she interested him 
 because her manners and speech were innately refined. 
 She was well bred; moreover, she was beautiful. In his 
 lonely life, her fresh young presence was a delight. He 
 wanted a friendship to come of it. 
 
 So, on this occasion, he was careful not to make any 
 reference to her agitation, and he felt she was grateful. 
 But, after she had gone, he speculated about it a long 
 time ; and when she failed to arrive at the appointed hour 
 the day following, his impulse, when he realised she was 
 not coming, was to telephone to her. On second thought, 
 he decided it would be an excellent excuse to go to her 
 house. He wanted to find out how she lived. 
 
 Her address was on West Ninety-second Street, near 
 Columbus Avenue. The house was one of a row of old- 
 fashioned brick fronts, that had been remodelled and 
 turned into apartments. In answer to the pressure of the 
 bell beneath the brass mail box in the entry, the front 
 door clicked violently. He pushed it open and, after an 
 unending climb of stairs, through dark halls, he found 
 her at the top of the last flight waiting for him. She 
 had come out into the hall to meet him, but, when she rec 
 ognised Carey, she was much embarrassed. There were 
 two entrances to the apartment. She had opened the one 
 in the rear that gave access to the kitchen and, not ex 
 pecting a social visit, she still wore a large checked 
 apron that amply enveloped her. Through the open 
 door, Carey caught sight of a gas stove and a steaming 
 
i88 THE AMATEUR 
 
 covered pot. An odour of cooking vegetables hung in the 
 air. Sunlight poured in through the back window. 
 
 She stood a moment, awkwardly regarding him, and 
 then, as he began to speak, swiftly stepped back into the 
 apartment, shutting the door in his face. Taken aback, 
 his anger rising, he was about to descend the stairs, when 
 the door at the front end of the hall opened and she re 
 appeared, the apron removed. 
 
 "Please come in, Mr. Williams," she said. "I hope that 
 didn t seem rude." 
 
 "I was afraid you were sick," he began; but she held 
 up her hand. 
 
 "Not one word about the work," she said, her voice 
 low and quick. "My aunt ," she indicated some one 
 sitting within, "doesn t know I pose." 
 
 Puzzled, Carey followed her. The room in which he 
 found himself was unusually large, and gay with chintz. 
 There were chintz curtains and chintz-covered furniture, 
 and the wall paper was bright with a twining rose design. 
 A little, white-haired woman in black came forward and 
 was introduced. They all sat down stiffly, and a con 
 strained silence fell upon them. Carey, not knowing on 
 what basis he could explain his presence, waited for Ce 
 cilia to begin. The girl was equal to the occasion, how 
 ever. There was no hint of the embarrassment and shy 
 ness that had possessed her at the studio. For a few 
 brief moments her grey eyes swept the room, fixed them 
 selves for one searching instant on Carey, and then turned 
 to her aunt. 
 
 "Mr. Williams is the son of Mr. Virgil Williams, 
 Tante. You remember the man we met at Mrs. Swoop s 
 reception/ She lowered her voice. "You knew he he 
 died ? Mr. Williams has Mr. Williams came on to New 
 York to arrange matters." 
 
THE AMATEUR 189 
 
 The old lady, who sat primly on the edge of the chintz- 
 covered davenport, raised her eyebrows in polite sym 
 pathy. 
 
 Cecilia rambled on, Carey adding a confirming sentence 
 now and then. Mr. Williams was an artist; Mr. Wil 
 liams was a newcomer to New York, he had not been 
 here a year yet; Mr. Williams had inherited a splendid 
 collection of piano music from his father. All she had 
 learned from Carey about himself she retold her placid, 
 white-haired aunt, who dutifully responded with an occa 
 sional "Oh" and "Ah." Carey, watching Cecilia, mar 
 velled at her quick-witted assurance and ease, so differ 
 ent from the shy, unresponsive girl who came to pose for 
 him. 
 
 Presently he rose and held the thin, frail fingers for a 
 moment, making his adieux. Cecilia followed him out 
 in the hall. 
 
 "Thank you very much," she said. "I can t tell you 
 how grateful I am." 
 
 "When and where can I see you?" 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 "Have I offended?" he demanded. 
 
 She glanced up to his face, a look of surprise in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "No, of course not. I will be walking in the Mall 
 in the Park at four." 
 
 "Thank you." He pressed her hand and ran down 
 stairs. 
 
 Cecilia Shaughnessy s story was commonplace enough. 
 She told it to Carey while they walked in the Park later 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 She was born in Altoona, Pennsylvania. Her father, 
 a happy, irresponsible Irish musician, had died shortly 
 
190 THE AMATEUR 
 
 after his marriage to one of the daughters of a local 
 manufacturer. His wife followed him four years later. 
 Cecilia was left to her mother s older sister, who 
 conceived a fierce affection for her little niece, and reared 
 her with the most rigid surveillance. There had been a 
 little money, just enough to keep them decently com 
 fortable. Music was the one thing upon which they disa 
 greed. The aunt, who was tone deaf, had no patience 
 with Cecilia s passionate love for it and would not give 
 one penny of their meagre income for even the rental of 
 a piano. The girl craved music as a hungry man craves 
 food. It was the nourishment of her soul. Since they 
 had come to live in New York, Cecilia had never neg 
 lected an opportunity to go where free music might be 
 heard. She went on Sundays to various churches and to 
 the Park when the band played in the afternoon. She 
 frequented the concerts at the department stores and 
 those given by the manufacturers of player-pianos. In 
 the evening, when she could get some one to accompany 
 her, she went to the free musical lectures at the Museum 
 of Natural History. But she was not satisfied. To her 
 Carnegie Hall and the Metropolitan Opera House were 
 palaces of enchantment, for there the Boston Symphony 
 and the Philharmonic Society held their concerts, the 
 greatest virtuosos played and the world s opera stars 
 sang. To be able to enter either of these two buildings, 
 with the fortunate others who came by carriage and au 
 tomobile, who sprang up under one s feet, arriving from 
 this direction and that, pouring into the doorways like 
 a black stream of water being sucked into a funnel, would 
 be to her the greatest happiness afforded human kind. 
 Often she would walk up and down on the other side of 
 the street, watching an audience gather and disappear 
 
THE AMATEUR 191 
 
 within the enchanted gates, the longing to be one of 
 them tearing her heart until it became a torture. 
 
 One day, in desperation, she determined to try to earn 
 some money by posing. An artist she had known had 
 once wanted to paint her. She did not know what else 
 she could do. The thought that she might be asked to 
 undress and pose for the nude filled her with terror. 
 She presumed that that was expected of all models, and 
 this would have been an impassable barrier to her. For 
 days she wrestled with the idea. Twice she presented 
 herself at artists studios, only to turn away at the last 
 moment, sick with fear. She told her aunt that she 
 wanted to take a course in designing at the College of the 
 City of New York; this would account for her absences 
 from home. Then came the day she had gone to The 
 Rembrandt Studios. Fearing that she might be pre 
 vented from entering the building, if it was apparent that 
 she was soliciting model-hire, she avoided the elevator and 
 climbed resolutely to the third floor and knocked on the 
 first door. A woman opened it; but she was a fashion 
 artist and did not use models. The fact that Cecilia 
 might get work from an artist of her own sex had not 
 occurred to her before. It gave her courage. The next 
 studio contained an individual with long hair, who in 
 formed her curtly that he did not engage models; he 
 was a musician. The third was occupied by two men, 
 one of whom sat working over a drawing board, while 
 the other, a dressing gown about him, lay propped up in 
 bed reading. They invited her to come in. Reluctantly, 
 an instinctive distrust of them filling her heart, she en 
 tered and closed the studio door behind her. For some 
 moments they let her stand before them without ad 
 dressing her, while they ran their eyes over her, like cat 
 tle judges appraising beef. This was Cecilia s impres- 
 
192 THE AMATEUR 
 
 sion of their attitude. Finally, the man at the drawing 
 board said to her: 
 
 "Well, Bright-eyes, what s your name?" 
 
 It was the inflection he gave the words that sickened 
 Cecilia. Wave after wave of hot shame swept up into 
 her face. She was afraid she would faint there in their 
 room. Blindly she groped for the door handle, flung the 
 door open, and gained the refuge of the hall. She 
 walked down the long corridor hurriedly, struggling to 
 regain her composure. At the end of it she waited, her 
 hands pressed to her burning face. She determined to 
 make one more effort. She saw a neatly engraved call 
 ing card tacked upon a door. It implied gentility. She 
 came close to read it. It was Carey s name. 
 
 On her last visit to The Rembrandt Studios, she had 
 met one of the two men who had so frightened and 
 shocked her. In the hall, as she passed him, he had 
 turned to watch her and had called out after her; she 
 didn t catch his words. It made her feel degraded. She 
 was sick and giddy by the time she reached Carey s stu 
 dio. The next morning the same man was watching for 
 her. The studio he and his sick friend occupied com 
 manded, when its door was open, a view of the brass 
 elevator cage. The noise made by the car coming to a 
 stop and the clang of the gate rolling back sufficed to ap 
 prise anyone who might be interested, that someone was 
 getting out at the third floor ; a hasty glance, even from 
 the further end of the studio, could determine the iden 
 tity of the arriving person. 
 
 Cecilia, as she stepped out of the elevator, saw him at 
 the same time he caught sight of her. Swiftly, like a 
 hunted animal, she turned and ran down the stairs, out 
 into the street. She could not go back. She felt sure 
 Carey would telephone, and then she would try to ex- 
 
THE AMATEUR 193 
 
 plain matters to him. She hated to give up the sittings. 
 Carey had always been considerate and kind, and the 
 money earned gave her the only feeling of independence 
 she had ever known. It meant concerts and operas to 
 her; she had been to hear the Kneisel Quartet on Satur 
 day afternoon, and had gone to the Damrosch concert on 
 Sunday. It was wonderful ! It had been the only glimpse 
 she had ever had into Paradise, that she would ever 
 have. It was all over. Her grey eyes became suddenly 
 suffused ; drops trembled on her lashes. 
 
 They had gone to the Casino for tea. It had been very 
 cold and, as they had sauntered up and down the Mall, 
 both had become chilled. Fortunately, the Casino was 
 deserted, and it was warm and pleasant. From behind 
 the glass partition they could see an occasional motor 
 spin past, scattering a fountain of slush to either side of 
 the road. 
 
 "My dear Miss Shaughnessy," Carey said, "don t talk 
 of giving up your sittings because a dirty beast of a fel 
 low insulted you in the hallway. I ll move my studio 
 first. I ve told you it looks as if I was going to catch on, 
 and I ve got you to thank for it. I couldn t let you go 
 now ; I need you very much ; it would be impossible for 
 me to get along without you. Now, to-morrow I ll be 
 waiting at the Paulist Church at ten, and I ll go with you 
 to my studio. No one will speak to you while you have 
 an escort." 
 
 Cecilia made a quick reach for her handkerchief and 
 caught the tears just in time. 
 
 "You re very kind, Mr. Williams. I suppose I m fool 
 ish; but my life has been one constant repression. Don t 
 do this, Celia and Don t do that, Celia. I ve been 
 scolded and reprimanded until it doesn t seem as if I 
 could do a thing without meeting my aunt s displeasure. 
 
194 THE AMATEUR 
 
 You see, she was eighteen years older than my mother, 
 and she s an old woman now. She thinks it her duty to 
 find faults in me. I don t know why I tell you all these 
 things. You seem easy to talk to. I didn t know how I 
 was going to make you realise that I wasn t just a model. 
 Even now I don t understand how I ever came to do it. * 
 
 Carey did not answer; he felt very sorry for her. 
 He made up his mind that he would be good to this girl 
 and make her a friend. They were both young and 
 lonely and needed companionship. 
 
 "You mentioned my father this morning," he said. 
 "Did you and your aunt meet him? Tell me how he im 
 pressed you." 
 
 "I m sorry about that. I hoped you d understand. I 
 said whatever came into my head. My aunt wouldn t re 
 member whom she met at that particular affair, and I 
 wanted to make her think we had properly been intro 
 duced. Please forgive me. I hate to deceive her so. I 
 suppose you think I m pretty wicked." 
 
 Carey reached across the table and took her hand. 
 
 "Miss Shaughnessy please. Don t talk that way. 
 Let s you and I be friends -real friends. I understand 
 you better than you think. I ve seen you in your quiet 
 home; your gentle aunt, however exacting she may be, 
 is obviously a lady, and there is no mistaking you. I 
 need your friendship and you mine. Will you accept it ?" 
 
 They smiled at one another and pledged themselves 
 in tea, touching cups. Later they walked home through 
 the leafless trees in the gathering twilight, the snow 
 stretching over the buried grass on either side, broken 
 here and there by irregularly-shaped brown patches where 
 it had begun to melt. Neither of them said much, but 
 each was conscious that a strong bond had been estab 
 lished between them. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 AS Carey stepped out of the elevator on reaching his 
 own floor, he saw the closed door of the studio which 
 had been left open by its occupants that morning to watch 
 for Cecilia s arrival. He had not identified it in his mind 
 as she had described the incident, but now he recognised 
 it as the one he knew was occupied by Fleming Springer. 
 His name and that of W. Tilford were neatly lettered 
 on a card and thumb-tacked to the door. Without con 
 sidering what he was going to say, but conscious of a cer 
 tain smouldering indignation, he pushed the electric bell 
 and opened the door at the answering shout. 
 
 The room was about the same size as his own, but, 
 owing to its disorder, seemed smaller. A litter of things 
 lay upon the floor. A brass bed, askew with the angle of 
 the wall, the covers thrown over its foot, added to the 
 confusion. Under the glaring cluster of electric lights a 
 man, with a heavy growth of unshaven beard, clad in a 
 wadded silk wrapper, sat at a cluttered table, eating some 
 smoking spaghetti and drinking tea. Beneath the dress 
 ing gown the legs of his pajamas protruded, exposing 
 hairy shins and bare feet thrust into wicker sandals. The 
 other occupant, a clear-eyed, clean-faced, black-haired 
 fellow, wearing a pair of khaki trousers, daubed with 
 paint and spotted with ink, stood in the doorway of the 
 
 195 
 
196 THE AMATEUR 
 
 bathroom drying his hands on a towel. They both looked 
 up inquiringly as Carey entered. 
 
 "You ll excuse me/ Carey said, taking the plunge at 
 once, "but I want to ask you fellows a favour. My name s 
 Williams, and I have a studio down the hall. There s a 
 model who comes to sit a couple of hours for me every 
 morning, and one of you chaps has scared her so she 
 won t come any more. She s very shy and new at the 
 game; in fact, she never did any posing before; but she 
 happens to be just the type I m looking for, and I want 
 to ask you not to bother her." 
 
 The two men exchanged looks and both began to laugh. 
 The one at the table turned to Carey : 
 
 "Has she wonderful red hair, and soft, grey eyes, 
 and a perfect oval face, and a charming, shy, shrinking 
 manner?" 
 
 "Oh, shut up, you lurid ass!" the other interrupted 
 him. He came forward to Carey, wiping the last of the 
 moisture from his hand and extended it toward him with 
 such heartiness and good humour that it instantly robbed 
 Carey of his feeling of resentment. 
 
 "My name s Springer, Mr. Williams, and I m the of 
 fending party ! You tell the young lady that I m darned 
 sorry I annoyed her, and I ll not bother her again. She 
 came in here looking for work, and I made some face 
 tious remark that frightened her; I ve been trying to 
 apologise to her ever since. I saw her a couple of times 
 on her way to your rooms, and I confess frankly that I 
 did rave a bit about her looks to Tilley. She certainly 
 is a hummer ; but, Lord, I wouldn t have frightened her 
 for a million dollars." 
 
 They shook hands warmly. Carey was conscious of an 
 instant liking for him. His frank, ingenuous manner 
 swept constraint and reserve out of its way as readily 
 
THE AMATEUR 197 
 
 and unconcernedly as an old woman s broom cleans a 
 dirty kitchen. 
 
 He had a strong, clean face of remarkable beauty with 
 out being offensively handsome. His hair was thick and 
 intensely black, the glossy blackness of jet ; he wore it 
 straight back off his forehead, plastered to his skull like 
 a tight-fitting black cap. His eyebrows were unusually 
 heavy, even and dark. His mouth was large and expres 
 sive, and when he smiled which was often he showed 
 a double row of large, perfect teeth, white as chalk and 
 glistening as wet porcelain. He had a trick of winking 
 his eyes rapidly now and then, that was nervous rather 
 than affected. His chin was square and, although he had 
 just shaved, his beard, underneath his rather olive skin, 
 showed blue black. It was his sunny expression rather 
 than the regularity of his features that made his face so 
 likable. 
 
 Til ford had returned to the experiment of trying to 
 wind his spaghetti upon his fork and transfer it to his 
 mouth without disaster. In his wadded dressing gown 
 and bristling beard, he appeared anything but attractive. 
 He was a little bald and unhealthily fat. 
 
 Possibly Springer guessed from Carey s glance be 
 tween them that he was wondering at the incongruity of 
 the two. 
 
 "Tilley s my cousin, and he thinks he ought to rag me 
 about every girl I happen to admire. Tilley s a good 
 sort," he continued as if the other were not present ; "he s 
 a bit fussy about what he eats, but he s a gentle animal. 
 The dear creature has had a touch of pleurisy, and he s 
 grouchy when he s sick. He s not a pleasant sight now, is 
 he, Williams ? But he ain t so bad when he s shaved and 
 cleaned up!" 
 
 Carey laughed, but Til ford silently regarded his face- 
 
198 THE AMATEUR 
 
 tious room-mate above the rim of his tea cup. With calm 
 contempt, ignoring him, he turned to Carey, as he set the 
 cup down, and asked : 
 
 "What s your line, Mr. Williams? 1 presume you re 
 finding fashions as profitable as the rest of em these 
 days?" 
 
 "No, I m not clever enough for that," Carey answered. 
 He told them a little about himself, mentioning his recent 
 success with Sherman. 
 
 "Sherman s a crank ; he doesn t often get enthusiastic," 
 rejoined Tilford. "He must have liked your stuff very 
 much; I d like a look at it myself some time, if you 
 wouldn t mind." 
 
 "Tilley believes himself a connoisseur/ Springer 
 laughed. "You wouldn t think to look at him now that 
 he was the Advertising Director of the Frank Peabody 
 Company." 
 
 Carey thought for a moment that Springer was joking; 
 but something in Tilford s face, a look of half amuse 
 ment, half irritation, suddenly convinced him that he 
 was not. Carey could not conceal his surprise. The 
 Frank Peabody Company was one of the most enterpris 
 ing and largest advertising agencies in the country, and 
 that this slightly bald, fat, unshaven gentleman in wad 
 ded wrapper should be its Advertising Director was al 
 most unbelievable. 
 
 "He looks as if he were in the presence of the Ma 
 harajah of Rajpootana!" exclaimed Springer. "Brace 
 up, man," he said to Carey. "He s harmless ; never been 
 known to bite any one, unless attacked. Wait; I ll get 
 something to steady your nerves." He disappeared into 
 the kitchen, and Carey heard him plying the ice pick in 
 the refrigerator. 
 
 "I caught a rotten cold in my back," Tilford said, re- 
 
THE AMATEUR 199 
 
 ferring to his illness. "I couldn t take a long breath with 
 out it catching me like a knife thrust. I had to pant like 
 a dog. They ve had me in bed for nearly three weeks. 
 However, I m quite all right again and will be able to get 
 back to the office on Monday. God, I hate being sick!" 
 
 Carey said something about it being "certainly fierce" 
 and that he was "mighty sorry." He rose to go, with a 
 pleasant feeling that he had at last made two friends in 
 that barrack of studios, when Springer returned, the 
 stems of two wine glasses in one hand, while in the other 
 he twirled and rattled a nickel-plated cocktail shaker. 
 
 Springer had mixed enough liquor to make four cock 
 tails and, as Tilford declined to join them, Carey and he 
 had two apiece. As they were drinking them, the door 
 of the apartment was burst open, and a man thrust his 
 head into the room with an abrupt exclamation. He was 
 greeted with a loud welcome from both of Carey s new 
 acquaintances. 
 
 "Hello, Mark!" 
 
 "Come in, you re just in time !" 
 
 The newcomer accepted the invitation, shutting the 
 door with a backward thrust of his foot. He was tall 
 and lantern-jawed, his eye was rather wild, but his face 
 was unmistakably the face of a humorist. He was intro 
 duced, and Carey recognised in him the Mark Harrison 
 whose distorted, absurdly amusing pen-and-inks often 
 occupied a double page in the comic weeklies. He also 
 had the reputation of being a brilliant cartoonist. 
 
 Springer disappeared into the kitchenette, and pres 
 ently returned rattling the ice-filled shaker again. Har 
 rison had come in to know where Springer was going to 
 eat. He confessed he had only a can of sardines and the 
 remains of a potato salad in his larder, and felt like 
 going out to get a decently-cooked meal. They discussed 
 
200 THE AMATEUR 
 
 it while they drank their cocktails. Springer had refilled 
 Carey s glass and, from a feeling of wanting them to like 
 him, he had not demurred. An argument ensued, in 
 which Springer, while in enthusiastic accord with Harri 
 son s suggestion that they go out and get some decent 
 "eats," objected to the French rotisserie that Harrison 
 advocated. He was in favour of Martin s or the Hof- 
 brdu. Harrison claimed he never got his money s worth 
 at either of these places; they over-charged, and, unless 
 you ordered liberally, they made you uncomfortable. 
 
 The two began to call each other grotesque names; 
 Harrison s epithets were so absurd and outrageous that 
 Carey was convulsed with mirth. The discussion became a 
 contest in which each strove to originate the more ridicu 
 lous term of opprobrium with which to address the other. 
 Even Til ford was amused. He made no noise when he 
 laughed, shaking all over like some huge mound of jelly. 
 Carey s mirth became an agony; the tears trickled from 
 his eyes, while he struggled to catch his breath. At his 
 importunities, they finally stopped, more because the fer 
 tility of their brains had become exhausted rather than to 
 please him. The selection of the dining place, however, 
 was still unsettled. Carey, on whom the cocktails had 
 begun to have their effect, felt emboldened to propose 
 Mouquin s. The suggestion appeared a most happy one 
 to both. They welcomed it with enthusiasm and insisted 
 that Carey should go along with them. Pleased, but 
 feeling it would be better not to accept too readily, he 
 made various excuses, but they would not listen to him. 
 Springer s vehement insistence warmed Carey s heart. 
 He had conceived a deep admiration for this successful, 
 attractive, free-mannered youth, and Springer s evident 
 liking for himself was flattering and delightful. 
 
THE AMATEUR 201 
 
 The evening was a long-remembered one. It marked 
 the beginning of his friendship for Fleming Springer 
 and a phase of his own life that was to last for many 
 months. They dined hilariously at Mouquin s, and later 
 drove about the tenderloin district crowded into a han 
 som cab. Carey had no idea that there existed so many 
 places which, instead of a harsher name, might be called 
 dance-halls. He had lived in New York the better part 
 of a year, and with Jerry Hart had visited only the ones 
 that were well known, like the Haymarket and Mollie s. 
 But Fleming Springer knew them all, and in most was 
 known himself by the stewards and waiters. Their at 
 titude toward him was deferentially obsequious, and he 
 accepted it genially, without affectation. Carey was puz 
 zled at first. He could not understand wherein lay 
 Springer s influence. During the early part of the even 
 ing, the three kept together, leaving each place after one 
 of them had bought a round of drinks. There was a 
 dearth of gaiety in these gaudy resorts at first, and 
 Springer paid no attention to the few tired-looking girls 
 who sat scattered about among the tables that hemmed in 
 the dancing floor. Toward eleven o clock a marked 
 change began to make itself evident; the tables rapidly 
 filled up and by twelve there was not a seat vacant. As 
 soon as the crowd began to gather, the girls who created 
 the atmosphere that made these places seem brilliant and 
 fascinating, put in their appearance. Carey was aston 
 ished at their quiet, unassuming, though elegant manner 
 of dressing, and their exquisite beauty. He expected the 
 beauty of the women of the under-world to be coarse, 
 marred and wasted, their manner of dressing conspicu 
 ous and extreme. These late-comers might have been 
 one s sisters with their trim, severe tailor-mades, their 
 quiet, unostentatious airs, their refined good looks. The 
 
202 THE AMATEUR 
 
 attitude they assumed was one of disdain and disinterest 
 edness. A man who sought their acquaintance, not prop 
 erly introduced, found small favour with them. They 
 looked about for their own friends and other habitues 
 and failing to find them at one place, went elsewhere in 
 search of them. 
 
 All these creatures of exotic beauty knew Fleming 
 Springer. At once his influence in these cheap and taw 
 dry pleasure haunts was explained. He was not a lavish 
 spender; he never bought wine, but to these unfortu 
 nate women his charm was irresistible. It was his im 
 personal and indifferent manner with them, Carey de 
 cided, that made him so attractive. It was not his money 
 they wanted; he might have his choice among them if 
 he would; they wanted him, to be with him, to be seen 
 with him, to dance with him. He possessed some subtle 
 influence over them that drew them to him as moths to a 
 light. He was magnificently built : a deep chest and 
 powerful shoulders, a slim waist and narrow hips. On 
 the floor, dancing the curious Coney Island walk that 
 was then popular, he appeared exceedingly graceful and 
 handsome. The women at the tables watched him, some 
 of them boldly trying to catch his eye. 
 
 But Springer was either unconscious of their prefer 
 ence for him, or carefully concealed his knowledge of it. 
 A certain girl, to whom he and Harrison referred as 
 Trixie, failed to visit her usual haunts that particular 
 evening and, as the night wore on, it became imperative 
 for them that they should find her. In a hansom they 
 drove from place to place, Carey becoming more and 
 more impressed with their familiar knowledge of these 
 dives and dance-halls. It failed to disgust him as when 
 first he had accompanied Jerry Hart. Under the influ 
 ence of Springer s genial society, it was only gloriously 
 
THE AMATEUR 203 
 
 reckless. He was conscious that he was splendidly young, 
 and that it was delightful to be in Springer s company. 
 
 Failing to locate Trixie, they decided it was time to 
 eat again, and drove to Jack s. Somehow, Springer s 
 personality secured them a table in that crowded restaur 
 ant. Women glanced at him, and to a few he bowed, 
 showing his white, glistening teeth in an expansive grin. 
 Every one, so it seemed to Carey, was conscious of his 
 charm and good looks. He needed but to wish people to 
 like him, and they began to love him. 
 
 At Jack s, after they had finished their bacon and 
 scrambled eggs, they lost Harrison. He had left their 
 table to speak to some one, and failed to return. After 
 looking for him a long time, it finally occurred to Carey 
 to inquire of the hat boy if the tall man who had checked 
 his hat with theirs had gone out. The boy was under 
 the impression that he had. It remained only for 
 Springer and Carey to go home. But neither of them 
 wished to do so. Although they had been drinking heavily, 
 they assured each other that they were not in the least 
 intoxicated. They decided to get an open carriage and 
 drive out to a place called "The Crow s Nest," which 
 Springer characterised as a "nifty joint." 
 
 Toward four o clock, they found their way back to 
 The Rembrandt Studios. Both of them were very much 
 under the influence of liquor; they were drunk by now, 
 but, although they occasionally staggered, they still had 
 some portion of their wits about them. At a certain 
 stage of their intoxication, Carey and Springer had 
 grown sentimental and had expressed their liking for one 
 another, pledging eternal friendship. It had been a thrill 
 ing moment, and it was of that Carey thought when 
 he woke the following morning, his head racking, his 
 nerves shaken to pieces, his mouth dry and flannelly. It 
 
204 THE AMATEUR 
 
 seemed to him that it had been a wonderful night, and 
 Springer s declaration of friendship the most wonderful 
 thing that had happened in it. 
 
 The immediate result of his new friendship was Til- 
 ford s enthusiasm for his recent work. Springer told 
 him about it, and one evening Til ford came in "to have 
 a look at his stuff," as he expressed it. Carey had fin 
 ished five studies of Cecilia. With each drawing, he 
 made of her, he felt his hand became more practised. 
 He was able to get more "postery" effects and to allow 
 himself to take certain liberties that a little earlier he 
 would not have dared attempt. He was developing a ten 
 dency to tone down his work rather than make it "con- 
 trasty" or brilliant. He began to try for the colour ef 
 fects of the great French painter, Puvis de Chavannes. 
 The pale, flat tones refined his work and strengthened its 
 quality. 
 
 Tilford made no pretence of hiding his pleasure. The 
 following day, Carey brought the five studies down to 
 Til ford s office. Frank Peabody himself came in to meet 
 the artist and to look at his work. He and Tilford be 
 gan an unintelligible conversation with regard to its ap 
 peal to an individual whose name Carey gathered was 
 Gernhardt. Tilford asserted that it was just what Gern- 
 hardt wanted, "something distinctive and original." 
 Peabody was noncommittal, reflectively rubbing his chin. 
 A few days later, Carey received an order for a series of 
 twelve heads from The Frank Peabody Company. They 
 agreed to pay him fifteen hundred dollars for the dozen 
 drawings. They were to be used as poster advertise 
 ments for a new department store that was shortly to 
 open in New York. In the meantime, Carey had sold 
 three of the five he had already finished to Sherman and 
 
THE AMATEUR 205 
 
 the two remaining ones to Ben Mercy. He received but 
 fifty dollars apiece for the last, as Mercy could only use 
 them on the jackets of books. Heads were not appropri 
 ate for the cover of Stapleton s, but Mercy was full of 
 praise for Carey s new work, and patted him approvingly 
 on the back. 
 
 "You ll make a hit with this work, my boy. This is 
 what the public likes. The magazines and advertis 
 ers will be running after you; they ll be like a pack of 
 hungry wolves on your trail. But . . . but . . ." He 
 hesitated, glancing at Carey as if appraising him. "Let me 
 give you a piece of advice : Keep your head ; don t let them 
 make a fool of you; don t think because they come 
 flocking after you, you have done something that will 
 carry you along for the rest of your life. You ve dis 
 covered a new twist to an old appeal. You haven t in 
 vented the appeal itself. They will quit you when they 
 are tired of you as quickly as now they clamour for you. 
 Make this trick of yours serve you as long as it will. 
 Keep humble, see clearly, and work for something more 
 permanent. Don t let your popularity turn your head. 
 You have a great future before you if you re big enough 
 to seize it and handle yourself rightly. I like you and 
 I d like to see you succeed." 
 
 Carey glowed in the warmth of Ben Mercy s approval. 
 He had won success. The great city he had grown to 
 love so dearly, with its sweating millions fighting their 
 daily fight for food and the right to exist, had not crushed 
 him. He recalled his first impression of New York from 
 the forward end of the Christopher Street ferry boat. In 
 retrospect he seemed so young, so unequipped then. He 
 was a man now, a man who had made his mark ! 
 
 Much he owed to Cecilia Shaughnessy. He was think 
 ing of her as he made his way homeward. Without her 
 
206 THE AMATEUR 
 
 he never would have accomplished what he had. She 
 was an ideal model, always punctual, never distract 
 ing him while she posed, taking her departure when 
 her time was up, silently and unobtrusively. If he did not 
 feel like working, she would understand his mood, and, 
 under her gentle influence, the desire for fresh effort 
 would gradually awake within him. But always there 
 was an air of distress about her while she was at the stu 
 dio ; she was ill at ease, constrained and timid. It was not 
 that she distrusted him, but rather that she felt her pres 
 ence there with him unwarranted. 
 
 As he sat comfortably in the corner of the Broadway 
 car he had taken, and gazed absently out into the street, 
 he wondered what he could do to make her happy, make 
 her feel more at home in the studio, make her perhaps be 
 gin to like him the way he had grown to like her. She 
 was so dear ! So companionable ! He was always sorry 
 for her when he thought about her. 
 
 As if in answer to his thoughts, a sign in a store win 
 dow, one among the many he passed unread and un 
 noticed, suddenly registered upon his consciousness : 
 "Pianos Rented Five Dollars a Month !" 
 
 He gazed at it fascinated, twisting his head to a painful 
 angle as the car swept past. Abruptly he struggled to his 
 feet, signalled the conductor, and swung himself to the 
 street before the car came to a standstill. 
 
 The expression on Cecilia s face when she came the 
 following morning amply repaid him for his thought and 
 the trifling expense. She threw him one of her quick, 
 expressive glances and, stripping off her gloves, raised the 
 ebony lid and seated herself on the revolving stool. For 
 a moment she regarded the silent keys, her hands folded 
 in her lap. Carey watched her, conscious of the deep 
 emotion that possessed her. Then the unhesitating fin- 
 
THE AMATEUR 207 
 
 gers were raised to the keyboard and she began to play. 
 Carey was astonished. He had expected the attempt of 
 a novice, a girl who, though perhaps a passionate music 
 lover, had no technique. Cecilia was an accomplished 
 musician; she played easily and brilliantly, wringing the 
 melodic harmonies from the instrument as only a person 
 can who has herself and the piano under perfect control. 
 
 "My grandmother in Altoona had an old square Chick- 
 ering," she said, in answer to Carey s surprised remark. 
 "I learned to play when I was five years old. The mother 
 of one of my little playmates taught me, and after that 
 I used to practise. My grandmother liked the hymns, but 
 Tante never showed any interest. Since we moved to 
 New York, I have only had a chance now and then at a 
 piano, and no one knows, Mr. Williams, how much I have 
 longed at times for the touch of the ivory keys." She 
 put her hand to her eyes and for a moment was silent. 
 Then, in a lower tone, she said very slowly, her voice full 
 of the huskiness that Carey always found so charming: 
 "I have a great deal for which to thank you, Mr. Wil 
 liams." 
 
 During the intermissions when she rested from the 
 constrained position of the pose, and after the work of 
 the day was over, Cecilia used to play. She revelled in 
 the music of Carey s father. Carey had always been in 
 different to music. He could grow enthusiastic over 
 popular songs, but had never been educated to an appre 
 ciation of a better grade. In her attempts to make him 
 understand it, Cecilia at first only partially succeeded. 
 He was content to lie on the couch while she played, 
 smoking cigarettes endlessly. A curious, sensuous de 
 light would envelop him after a while. The music had 
 a hypnotic effect. At such times he ceased to think. His 
 
208 THE AMATEUR 
 
 eyelids drooped, and he lay back among the cushions 
 soothed, deliciously content. 
 
 It was during one of these moments that Springer 
 came to see him. It was the first occasion that he had 
 not been welcome. Carey would have stopped him at 
 the door, but Springer, with the abrupt cessation of the 
 music, opened it without waiting for the answer to his 
 knock. Cecilia, when she recognised him, rose hastily to 
 her feet, one hand at her breast, her head bowed, her 
 eyelids lowered. The situation was awkward. Carey 
 introduced them, but Cecilia only inclined her head 
 slightly ; she did not raise . her eyes. Springer began 
 to talk to Carey about the Spring Exhibition at the 
 Academy, and Cecilia slipped into her hat and coat and, 
 without addressing either of them, left the room. 
 Springer regarded the closed door a moment without 
 speaking. 
 
 "She s sore, isn t she?" he said. 
 
 "She s a shy thing! I dare say she regards you as the 
 Mephistopheles of the situation," Carey answered. 
 
 "She s charming. You re a lucky chap, Carey!" 
 Springer said, cheerfully significant. 
 
 Carey laughed nervously. 
 
 "You re way off, my boy," he replied. "There s noth 
 ing doing." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 The exclamation was little more than a sound in 
 Springer s throat, and yet it expressed his utter disbelief, 
 and implied so Carey felt a disappointment in Car 
 ey s valuation of their new friendship, which, presuma 
 bly, was not of sufficient weight to permit such confi 
 dences. Carey wanted Springer to feel that he regarded 
 him as his chum, the best friend he had ever had. Un 
 consciously, in his admiration for him, he had begun to 
 
THE AMATEUR 209 
 
 imitate Springer s manner, his appearance, his style of 
 dress, and easy speech. That Springer should doubt his 
 whole-hearted affection for him, should consider him 
 miserly in his confidences, distrusting him, was intoler 
 able to Carey. He longed to share Springer s secrets, and 
 stood only too ready to tell him anything and everything 
 about himself that Springer cared to know. He did not 
 analyse his feelings in what he said next. He was con 
 scious only of being hurt and desiring that Springer 
 should not misunderstand him. 
 
 "I tell you, Springer, I hate to talk about a girl. 
 You ve got to protect em often against themselves. You 
 know I haven t had much experience with women; I m 
 a perfect tyro with em, compared to you. It took me 
 some time to get wise to Cecilia. She s a nice girl all 
 right, but she s like the rest of em. I m not the kind of 
 a fellow that kisses and tells. I ve got no secrets from 
 you, however. She s a wonder, and you re right, I am 
 a lucky chap." 
 
 "My girl s gone to Palm Beach," Springer said reflec 
 tively. "A rich guy s footing the bills ; he s Cunningham 
 Bates of the United States Suit and Cloak Company; bar 
 rels of money makes fifty thou a year. She came to me 
 and asked me whether she should go. I told her to run 
 along ; I ve got no money to spend on women. She writes 
 me almost every day." 
 
 He pulled out of his inside breast pocket two or three 
 bulky letters addressed to him in an angular, feminine 
 handwriting. 
 
 "I d like you to read em ; she s a clever kid. Go ahead, 
 read em," he insisted, as Carey hesitated. "She ll be 
 coming back in a few weeks, and I want you to meet her. 
 I wrote her all about you the other day." 
 
 Carey flushed with pleasure. It was very flattering to 
 
210 THE AMATEUR 
 
 know that Springer thought enough of him to write 
 about him to his girl. He shook out the closely written 
 sheets from an envelope and began to read. 
 
 It was a new experience for him. He felt he was 
 prying into the sacred privacy of a woman s soul. His 
 loyalty to Springer would not permit the thought that his 
 friend was guilty of any breach of confidence in show 
 ing the letters. They were curious samples of the abuse 
 of the English language. Illiterate and badly spelled, 
 they yet possessed a certain quality that indicated their 
 writer, whatever her educational disadvantages, had a 
 feeling for beauty and poetry. No one could question the 
 girl s sincerity. Every other word was one of endear 
 ment. She poured out her affection for Springer unre 
 servedly. Her love for him shone from the pages she 
 covered with her writing. One of her sentences Carey 
 remembered for a long time : 
 
 "When the sun shines on you, my darling, it is my love 
 that is warming you ; when it rains, the drops upon your 
 cheek are my caresses ; and when it snows, the soft flakes 
 upon your lips are my kisses." 
 
 Carey could not understand how a woman, who evi 
 dently loved so deeply, could live with another man, ac 
 cept his money, and deceive him by a continued pretence 
 of affection. He said as much to Springer. His friend 
 laughed. 
 
 "What the devil is she to do? I can t afford to keep 
 her, and I won t marry her!" 
 
 Carey was silent. It seemed all wrong. Springer 
 talked on, telling him of his various experiences with 
 women. It was, if true, an astonishing history. Springer 
 told it all too readily to be doubted, and Carey had seen 
 for himself his influence with women of the under-world. 
 Such men as Jerry Hart and Springer were new to 
 
THE AMATEUR 211 
 
 Carey; if there were those like them in his home town, 
 he had been too young to know them. Neither Jerry 
 Hart nor Springer considered himself unusual. The men 
 they knew were all more or less like themselves. Women 
 were their life, their chief interest. It was men like Carey 
 who were unusual ; he was letting his opportunity slip ; he 
 was asleep to the pleasures that might be his. He was a 
 molly-coddle. Women he met must hold him in con 
 tempt. He was too slow. 
 
 He thought of these things for several hours after 
 Springer left him that afternoon. The letter he had 
 read haunted him. It must be wonderful to be loved 
 like that ! Carey longed for such affection. He felt him 
 self much more deserving of it than Springer, who ob 
 viously held it in light esteem, allowing some one else to 
 share what might be his alone. Carey could not criticise 
 Springer. He recognised him as a victim of his own 
 charm. He was presumably selfish; he had been spoiled 
 by every one all his life; why shouldn t he be selfish? 
 No one, Carey felt, who was so spontaneous, so generous, 
 so warm-hearted and affectionate could be capable of 
 anything really blamable. Women fawned upon him; 
 men lavished their favour upon him ; he was only human. 
 Carey was sure he understood Springer, even on such a 
 short acquaintance, better than others who had known 
 him for many years. 
 
 When Cecilia Shaughnessy arrived the next morning, 
 there was a new light in Carey s eyes as he looked at her. 
 She was in higher spirits than he had ever seen her. 
 She had gone with a girl friend to the Boston Sym 
 phony the previous evening. They had played the 
 Brahms second symphony and a suite by Bach in D ma 
 jor. She had never heard such music. It had carried 
 her right to the gates of heaven. The marvellous har- 
 
212 THE AMATEUR 
 
 monies had been haunting her all night. It was such a 
 pity Carey did not understand music; he lost so much 
 pleasure in life. 
 
 She sat down at the piano and played from memory 
 the beginning of the second movement of the Brahms 
 symphony. Carey watched her face, radiant with the joy 
 the music gave her. He decided she had one of the most 
 perfect profiles he had ever seen. An exclamation burst 
 from him. She whirled around on the stool, believing 
 the music had at last reached him. 
 
 "Isn t it wonderful ! Could anything be more divinely 
 inspired?" She was glowing with enthusiasm. 
 
 "Yes yes, it s great/ Carey agreed. "It just struck 
 me, as you sat there playing that way, what a stunning 
 picture you d make as your namesake, the saint, Saint 
 Cecilia! By George, I never thought of it!" 
 
 "Didn t you?" she said. "My mother named me that 
 because she was so fond of music!" 
 
 "I suppose it was stupid of me not to have thought of 
 it before. Cecilia is a lovely name. It fits you like a 
 glove." He paused a moment. "I wish I did understand 
 music. Your enjoyment of it is is infectious; it must 
 be wonderful to get so much pleasure out of anything. 
 Sometimes a great piece of Art by a master affects me 
 that way. Perhaps, if I grew more familiar > " 
 
 She interrupted him, eagerly. 
 
 "That s what I say!" 
 
 "Well why can t I go with you to some of these con 
 certs. You could explain it to me before we went, so 
 I d understand." 
 
 Her eyes widened and her face grew bright at the 
 suggestion. 
 
 "Why, why not ?" she exclaimed. "It isn t often that 
 I can get away on Tante s account. I hate to deceive her 
 
THE AMATEUR 213 
 
 as I m doing, but she doesn t understand what music 
 means to me ! I m sure she wouldn t mind our going to 
 gether. It isn t as though she hadn t met you." 
 
 "We ll have a wonderful time," Carey said. "Tell 
 your aunt you re going to have dinner with one of your 
 friends, and we ll go down town and dine! After that 
 we can take in the concert or opera!" 
 
 "Opera !" she cried. "The opera by all means. I hate 
 to confess it, but I ve never been inside the Metropolitan 
 Opera House." 
 
 "Nor have I !" 
 
 In their enthusiasm, their hands touched. For a mo 
 ment Carey felt the warm tips of her fingers on his. 
 A wave of colour rushed into her face and she drew away 
 quickly, turning her head to hide it. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 SPRING was in the air. March had blown itself out 
 with its own winds. April had come in cold and 
 snowy. It did not seem as if the city would ever shake 
 off the winter s grip. Then, suddenly, almost overnight, 
 spring arrived. The sun blazed down, the air grew per 
 ceptibly warmer ; there was an elusive green haze among 
 the branches of the trees, so long denuded and dead. 
 Carey felt it in his blood. His feet tingled with it; he 
 imagined he was walking continually upon his toes. New 
 York, like some prostrate giant, rose dripping and ra 
 diant from the cold bath of winter, and smiled. Ten 
 days of delicious, penetrating sunny weather lashed the 
 lagging spring, as a jockey flogs his horse. The tiny 
 green buds fairly poked themselves out of their bursting 
 shells and, before one was aware, spring had come. 
 
 Carey was happier than he had ever been in his life. 
 He met Doctor Floherty on the street one day. It brought 
 back to him the uneventful, dismal days at Mamma Mug- 
 gins , and he saw himself, cooped up in his room under 
 the roof, indifferent, lazy, asleep to the possibilities that 
 lay about him, satisfied with the money his monogram- 
 making brought him, stupid and sottish. It was hard to 
 believe that it had been himself. Doctor Floherty was 
 warm in his greeting. He wanted Carey to come and 
 lunch with him some day, and Carey promised. The old 
 
 214 
 
THE AMATEUR 215 
 
 crowd at the Fillmore s had broken up; some Filipinos 
 had come to board. It wasn t the same as it used to be. 
 He wanted to congratulate Carey on his cover design on 
 the Consolidated Weekly. It was a stunning thing. 
 
 The reproductions of the designs that Sherman had 
 purchased confirmed what the Art Editor had predicted : 
 they were more effective than the originals. The en 
 graver s proofs had been sent to Carey for correction, 
 but there were no changes to be made. The weave in 
 the texture of the strawboard was almost lost, but 
 enough remained to produce the effect of a Ben Day 
 screen. It was discernible only in the background, and 
 it gave the whole design a soft, rich tone. Carey was 
 delighted. 
 
 Orders for work came in with satisfying regularity. 
 Gernhardt, through the Frank Peabody Company, sent 
 an order for another half dozen of Carey s heads. Sher 
 man agreed to take twelve, to be run on the first issue of 
 each month, the fiction number. A big Philadelphia 
 weekly rejected two that Carey had sent them, because 
 they only used two colours ; but East and West promptly 
 took these and paid one hundred and fifty dollars apiece 
 for them. The Art Editor of Overman s wrote him that 
 Mr. Ben Mercy had mentioned some cover designs by 
 Mr. Williams that were unusual and, if he would give 
 Overman s a look at them, the Art Editor would promise 
 a prompt decision. Carey considered his answer for 
 some time. It was a strong temptation to square ac 
 counts with this man for the rude, inconsiderate manner 
 in which he had treated Carey only a few months be 
 fore. He finally replied briefly that he sold his work 
 only on order and, if the Art Editor wished to see him 
 regarding it, he could find him during the mornings at 
 The Rembrandt Studios. While there was nothing vin- 
 
216 THE AMATEUR 
 
 dictive about Carey, he enjoyed this retaliation hugely. 
 Springer shared the feeling. The Art Editor of Over 
 man s was well known for his treatment of artists, and 
 none of the good men would accept work from him if 
 they could afford to let it go. 
 
 Carey s liking for Springer increased rather than di 
 minished. Constantly they went about together, to din 
 ner, to the theatre, to the polo grounds when the base 
 ball season opened. They discussed plans for spending 
 the summer together and for sharing a studio the follow 
 ing season. In addition to the money he earned from 
 his work, Springer had a steady income from a piece 
 of business property in Flushing that his uncle had left 
 him; and, with Carey s increasing popularity and rising 
 prices, they felt they could afford more comfortable quar 
 ters and perhaps keep a servant. 
 
 One hot day toward the end of May, Springer and 
 Carey drove out to the Park Casino in a hansom, and 
 had breakfast. It was Sunday morning about eleven 
 o clock. The glass storm windows had been taken 
 down, the red-striped canvas awning had been rolled 
 down over the stone flagging, and the little round tables 
 had been set out, each covered with its white cloth. 
 Something compelling in the mellow sunshine and the 
 green that was making itself evident in the trees and 
 lawns had suggested the Casino as a pleasant spot for 
 breakfast to others beside Carey and Springer. The 
 place was rilled, but they found a vacant table by the iron 
 railing. About them arose a gay murmur of laughter and 
 chatter. Carey had never seen so many gorgeously at 
 tired women. He was conscious of the spring millinery 
 and the covert looks and remarks with which certain hats, 
 more conspicuous than others, were discussed. 
 
 "Actresses!" Springer whispered to Carey across the 
 
THE AMATEUR 217 
 
 table. "They love to hang out here Sunday mornings. 
 It s a bit early for em to be out, but I guess it s the 
 weather. Good Lord, Carey, look at that creature in 
 green! Upholstery, I call it." 
 
 It was a wonderful hour. The sun lay warm and 
 grateful on Carey s neck. The birds twittered in the 
 hedges and garden beds. The odour of coffee and broil 
 ing chops drifted appetizingly from the kitchen. There 
 was a feeling of merriment and gaiety in the air. Every 
 one was conscious of the golden morning. Several par 
 ties were opening champagne. 
 
 "As I live!" Springer exclaimed, "it s Myra!" 
 
 He jumped to his feet and wormed his way between 
 the tables, and presently Carey saw him bending over a 
 lady s chair. A strange emotion possessed Carey. Myra 
 was the girl who had written Springer from Palm Beach. 
 He felt certain he would be called over and introduced. 
 At the moment, he would have given everything he pos 
 sessed to have been spared the embarrassment of that in 
 troduction. He saw Springer being presented to the 
 others at the table, and then caught his eye as he turned 
 toward him and beckoned. It was an age before he 
 reached them. 
 
 "Miss Rossiter this is Mr. Williams." 
 
 Carey bowed. There were other introductions an 
 other girl and two men, one of whom was rather fat 
 and heavy-lidded. His cigar ashes lay in a cascade down 
 the front of his bulging vest. 
 
 Myra Rossiter was even more beautiful than Carey 
 expected from the innumerable photographs Springer 
 had shown him. She was dressed exquisitely; her face, 
 under the drooping lace that edged her hat, was faultless ; 
 her hair, brown and soft, hung low over her ears; her 
 throat, where the lace came together at her breast, was 
 
218 THE AMATEUR 
 
 white and delicately curved as marble. Her beauty was 
 the luscious type, lavish, prodigally luxuriant. Nothing 
 about her suggested the type Carey knew her to be. Only, 
 as she raised her eyes to Springer, there lurked in them, 
 so he thought, a hint of the love she dared not show. 
 
 After they had finished eating, Carey and Springer 
 wandered out into the Park. For a brief moment, when 
 they had risen from the table, Carey caught Myra Rossi- 
 ter s eye. She turned as they made their way toward the 
 broad steps to the driveway, and smiled at Springer when 
 he bowed. There was a separate little nod for Carey. It 
 was pleasant and friendly, and a sudden liking for her 
 rose within him. It increased his admiration for his 
 friend who had the affection of a girl so radiantly 
 beautiful, so unaffectedly gracious, no matter what the 
 conduct of her life might be. As they sauntered along 
 the concrete walks that wound under the trees, Springer 
 told him of his first meeting with Myra and their rela 
 tionship. She was a Weber and Fields girl, one of the 
 choicest of those that made up that chorus, so celebrated 
 for its beauty. He had wandered into a Broadway cafe 
 with a friend. Myra and another girl were sitting at a 
 table across the room, with two young boys, both much 
 affected by the champagne they had been liberally order 
 ing. They were obviously rich men s sons squandering 
 their money. Springer raised his glass as Myra looked 
 toward him, and she returned his smile. Presently he 
 went over and spoke to her. She greeted him as an 
 old friend and, while the two youths glowered at him, 
 not knowing whether or not to resent his intrusion, she 
 asked him to take her home. The other girl was a chance 
 acquaintance ; the boys would soon be too drunk to know 
 what they were about. 
 
 That had been the beginning. A friend of the stage 
 
THE AMATEUR 219 
 
 director, Cunningham Bates, the fat man with the 
 drooping eyelids, who had been with her at the Casino 
 was paying the rent of the apartment in which she lived 
 on Fortieth Street. He was the manager of one of the big 
 gest suit and cloak concerns in the city. Fortunately he was 
 often out of town, but he was extremely jealous of Myra, 
 and was always laying traps to catch her at a double game. 
 The minute he left town, she would ring up Springer, 
 and the two would have a mad round of reckless enjoy 
 ment, not parting from one another until he returned. 
 
 "And if he came back unexpectedly?" Carey asked. 
 
 Springer shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "He did once, but she lied out of it. Did you see him 
 look at me to-day? He suspects she s playing him, and 
 she stands an uncomfortably close chance of having him 
 wring her pretty little neck if he ever finds her out/ 
 
 Carey looked at him, puzzled and interested. 
 Springer cared so little for this wonderful girl s favour. 
 He would throw it aside like an old coat some day. At 
 present, her beauty, and the admiration she excited, flat 
 tered him. Other men envied him. He enjoyed Carey s 
 wonder and interest. It was of small consequence to 
 him that Myra loved him. He had always treated her 
 squarely, he told Carey, frankly informing her that he 
 had no money to throw away. When they were out to 
 gether, he paid the bills ; when they ate at her apartment, 
 she was the hostess. There were too many women in 
 the world, he said, for him ever to be content with one. 
 
 It was all true; Carey knew Springer was not lying. 
 It was that which made it all appear so unutterably be 
 wildering. As Springer talked on in his free, unreserved 
 manner, Carey s heart writhed within him. To have 
 some one love him as Myra Rossiter loved Fleming 
 Springer! Oh, that would be too wonderful to be ever 
 
220 THE AMATEUR 
 
 possible! Even the fat suit-and-cloak man, who was 
 being duped and laughed at, he envied. To provide for 
 such a creature, and at least command her pretended 
 affection, was worth while. Carey longed for some wom 
 an s love. He asked nothing more than her companion 
 ship. He was not ready for marriage. He had never 
 experienced the desire for it ; it did not occur to. him. It 
 only seemed to him extremely beautiful for these 
 two people so graciously favoured, so young and lithe 
 to wander about the city together, happy in each other s 
 company, enjoying their pleasures, utterly irresponsible. 
 
 He said as much to Springer. The other burst into 
 one of his infectious laughs. 
 
 "Good God, man ! What are you kicking at ? Haven t 
 you got Cecilia Shaughnessy? She s worth a thousand 
 Myras!" 
 
 Carey was dumb. His mind whirled about in a swift 
 vortex of thought. It kept on spinning all the rest of 
 the afternoon and far into the night. Anna s face kept 
 bobbing up before him; he saw again her convulsed 
 shoulders heaving in her soundless mirth ; he heard once 
 more her supplicating cry of "Jerry! Oh, my darling!" 
 Then came the purple, congested face and the starting 
 eyeballs ! Round and round Duzzed his thoughts : Anna 
 Myra Cecilia ! Anna Myra Cecilia ! 
 
 Toward supper time, he went up to Mark Harrison s 
 room, and together they drank a great deal of whiskey. 
 It left him unaffected and cold. When, finally, he fell 
 asleep, his troubled thoughts gave him no rest. Myra 
 came to him, beautiful and graceful, diaphanous draperies 
 floating about her. Hand in hand, he fled with 
 her through long forest glades. Beneath the towering 
 trees, the ground was soggy and marshy. Often he 
 stumbled, his feet slipping from under him. He heard 
 
THE AMATEUR 221 
 
 her voice calling him. Then it was the fat suit-and-cloak 
 manager who pursued him, and her voice reached his 
 ears mockingly. He woke tired and in the grip of acute 
 neuralgia. He tried to make some coffee for himself 
 on the tiny gas stove, but the small round-bottomed 
 saucepan slipped on the iron prongs of the burner and 
 upset. 
 
 When Cecilia arrived, she found him lying on the 
 couch, a towel across his eyes to shade them from the 
 glaring reflection of the sun that streamed in through the 
 huge skylight above his head. She was full of sympathy. 
 She did not offer to go; she hung up her hat and long, 
 loose coat and presently brought him some tea and held 
 the saucer while he leaned upon one elbow, draining 
 the strong, hot, soothing brew from the cup. Then she 
 pushed his drawing table close to the couch, tilting its 
 surface to intercept the blinding north light, and presently 
 she began to play. The music swept majestically up 
 into the treble, like a wave spreading itself fan-like over 
 the sand, and, pausing, rushed precipitately down into 
 the bass. The cadences of the swift rippling measures 
 never varied as the girl s white hands ran lightly from 
 one end of the piano to the other. Carey, where he lay, 
 could see the shadow of Cecilia s back as it swung to 
 and fro like a pendulum. Silently he sat up and watched 
 her. 
 
 Round went his thoughts in the giddy whirl that had 
 possessed his mind through the preceding night and day. 
 
 "Cecilia my Cecilia!" His lips formed the words. 
 Why not? Just as Myra was Springer s Myra. He saw 
 Cecilia and himself loitering over their breakfast cups; 
 he saw them wandering in the country together, stopping 
 for the night at some wayside inn, to rise early to go on 
 in the morning; he saw them dining at some curious 
 
222 THE AMATEUR 
 
 cafe and going to the theatre, settling comfortably in 
 their seats, waiting for the play to begin; he saw her 
 looking up at him with love shining out from her grey 
 eyes as it had shone from Myra s when she turned her 
 face up toward Springer s. 
 
 He had risen and was standing behind her as her slim 
 body followed her hands up and down the instrument. 
 Suddenly he gripped her in his arms, thrusting his face 
 to hers, close, his lips against her half opened mouth, so 
 that the edge of her teeth hurt him as he pressed her to 
 him. 
 
 "Ugh! Ah-h!" 
 
 With both hands against his chest, Cecilia pushed him 
 from her. For a moment they regarded each other, the 
 girl struggling to catch her breath. Then she struck him, 
 the knuckles clenched, the heel of the palm out, struck 
 him fiercely, with every ounce of strength she possessed, 
 bringing her half -shut fist down upon his unprotected 
 face. With every blow, a gasp of fury escaped her. 
 
 "You beast beast beast beast beast !" 
 
 Carey staggered back against the couch, covering his 
 bruised face with both his hands. He heard the long, 
 quivering intake of her breath and the dry sobs that 
 shook her as she stood s\vaying before him. He did not 
 look up. Unsteadily she walked toward where her hat 
 and long coat lay. She did not wait to put them on. She 
 picked them up and opened the studio door. Carey raised 
 his head in time to see it close behind her. 
 
 Slowly he rose to his feet, regarding the empty studio 
 dazedly. His eyes rested on the open piano that a few 
 moments before had vibrated to the rippling cadenzas that 
 flowed from her nimble fingers. It was impossible that 
 so much had happened in so brief a space of time ! In less 
 than two minutes the irreparable had occurred. That 
 
THE AMATEUR 223 
 
 was the end of Cecilia Shaughnessy! She would never 
 enter his life again. 
 
 Wearily, his feet dragging after him, he passed into 
 the bathroom to examine his bruised face. Beneath his 
 left eye lay the mark of her knuckles. He bathed this in 
 cold water, applying to it the witch hazel he used after 
 shaving with a saturated end of the towel. As he 
 dabbed at the spot, he gazed reflectively into his own eyes 
 that stared back at him from the mirror. 
 
 He paused a moment, his brow darkening. 
 
 "You fool!" he said, addressing himself. "You un 
 utterable ass !" 
 
 God ! What a fool he had been ! What a clumsy fool! 
 That was what hurt him most to remember. He had 
 bungled the business pitiably, unforgivably. How 
 Springer would laugh at him if he knew ! Carey thumped 
 the top of his aching head and shut his eyes as the humili 
 ation and the shame of what had happened swept over 
 him. 
 
 "Fool ! Fool ! Fool !" he said aloud. 
 
 At first he was concerned only with the sorry figure he 
 had cut. He had aspired to follow in Springer s footsteps 
 and what a mess he had made of it ! Presently, how 
 ever, he began to consider Cecilia, poor, shy, timid 
 Cecilia. Undoubtedly, she had told herself with pride 
 that she understood men, that she could trust her intu 
 ition, that Carey was different from the others, that with 
 him it was safe to go to his studio, sure of his considera 
 tion and respect. Carey sank down on the edge of the 
 bath tub and buried his face in his hands. The contempt 
 with which he regarded himself was past expression. 
 
 After a while he began to analyse the situation. It 
 was bad; but it might have been worse. He was in no 
 sense in love with Cecilia ; he had liked her. She had been 
 
224 THE AMATEUR 
 
 companionable and an excellent model. He had drawn 
 so many portraits of her, he felt sure he could "fake" 
 her face in any pose that was necessary. It made little 
 difference to him whether or not he ever saw her again. 
 That did not matter. What hurt him like a twisting 
 sword blade through his heart was that he had so mis 
 judged her, that he had outraged her so unforgivably, had 
 so demeaned himself in her eyes. 
 
 Half inspired by a desire to do the thing that would be 
 hardest, half prompted by the wish to correct an utterly 
 false impression he had given regarding her virtue, he 
 determined to tell Springer the truth about her and to 
 confess to him what an utter fool he had been. 
 
 He found him in his studio, busily working over some 
 pen-and-ink headings he was making for one of the fiction 
 monthlies. He burst into his confession, blurting out 
 the details of the final episode, wandering back to the 
 account of his call upon her at her home, his walk with 
 her in the Park, returning again to the time when, to 
 make himself appear as a man of the world in Springer s 
 eyes, he had deliberately insinuated that she was his 
 mistress. He had to shut his eyes when he came to this, 
 forcing the words from him by sheer force of will. He 
 refused to show himself any mercy, but stated the facts 
 baldly, proffering no excuses. It was a bitter ordeal for 
 Carey, but he compelled himself to go through with it 
 unflinchingly. 
 
 When he had finished it was some time before 
 Springer spoke. While Carey rambled on, he had con 
 tinued at his work, his face a few inches from his pen 
 point. Occasionally he would tip back in his chair, squint 
 ing his eyes at his work, twisting his head from side to 
 side. 
 
 Having delivered himself of all there was to say, Carey 
 
THE AMATEUR 225 
 
 grimly determined to add nothing more. He waited for 
 Springer to break the silence. A sick fear filled his soul 
 that his friend was too disgusted with him to speak his 
 mind. 
 
 "I never did think she was that kind of a girl," 
 Springer said at length. 
 
 Carey waited for what he would say in condemnation 
 of his own miserable part, but, presumably, Springer in 
 tended to make no further comment. 
 
 "I say, Carey, Myra s coming down to take dinner 
 with me. Why don t you come along ? You know me ! 
 If I didn t want to have you, you d never get asked!" 
 
 It was Carey s turn to delay his answer. A rush of 
 affection for Springer overwhelmed him. He realised 
 they understood each other; it was the nearest they 
 could come to expressing their true feelings. He had 
 not thought Springer capable of so much sentiment, at 
 least with regard to himself. Since he had come to know 
 him, he had often thought of Joe Downer; he had con 
 ceived much the same sort of blind affection for Springer 
 that Joe had for himself. He strove to conceal it, but 
 he knew that Springer was aware of it; he was accus 
 tomed to adoration from both men and women. Not 
 until this moment had he given Carey any reason to be 
 lieve that his affection was returned in any degree. 
 Springer did not propose to judge him; he presumably 
 had occasions of his own to remember when he had made 
 a mess of things. Searching about for some way in 
 which to convey this idea to Carey, he had proposed that 
 he accompany Myra and himself to dinner. It would 
 have indicated that Carey had not caught his meaning, if 
 he declined the invitation. 
 
 Picking up one of Til ford s pipes, Carey began forcing 
 the damp tobacco into its bowl. 
 
226 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "You re a king, Springer," he said. Each silently 
 pursued his own train of thought, and presently Carey 
 asked : 
 
 "I don t suppose you ll dress?" 
 
 "Good Lord, no." 
 
 They met Myra in the ladies waiting room at the 
 Knickerbocker Hotel. She was a vision of loveliness. 
 She wore a severely simple gown of clinging black silk, 
 set off with tiny ornaments of jade, while about her neck 
 hung a beautifully wrought gold-and-jade pendant. The 
 demureness of this costume was in striking contrast to 
 her hat of French straw, surmounted by a superb bird 
 of paradise. There was not a trace of make-up on her 
 delicately tinted skin. Her excessive beauty drew the 
 eyes of men and women alike, and Carey, knowing that 
 she must be conscious of the attention she attracted, mar 
 velled at her affected indifference and carefully assumed 
 ease of manner. Every gesture and every attitude were 
 the result of careful study. She had grown so accus 
 tomed to admiration that it no longer embarrassed her, 
 and her movements betrayed no suggestion of restraint. 
 
 They dined in the grill room of the hotel. At first a 
 feeling that he was the unnecessary third person filled 
 Carey with a certain diffidence. Springer was obviously 
 anxious that he and Myra should be friends; but Carey 
 knew that the girl s heart and eyes were for his friend 
 alone. Not that she betrayed her preference by look or 
 word ; Carey was only conscious of it in his heart. She 
 was very gracious, and she had an infectious little silvery 
 laugh that ran up and down, which he thought delightful. 
 The food and the wine warmed them, and presently all 
 three seemed the best of friends. 
 
 Myra was being urged by some girl friends to join the 
 
THE AMATEUR 227 
 
 chorus of The Belle of Mayfair, a new Edwardes opera 
 brought over from England, for which the company 
 was being then assembled, owing to an early fall opening. 
 
 "It means a lot of hard work/ she said, "and I d like 
 something better than just chorus. What I did when 
 Lew Fields took me into It Happened in Nordland com 
 pany suited me down to the ground. I never had a better 
 time in my life than that winter." She smiled reminis- 
 cently. 
 
 Carey bent forward eagerly. This touch of stage life 
 suggested a thousand other thrilling details. The theatre 
 to him had always been what the enchanted land of 
 princes and fairies is to a child. That Myra knew about 
 all that happened behind the curtain of mystery thrilled 
 and fascinated him. It threw an added glamour about 
 her. 
 
 "I m awfully soft, anyhow," she continued. "I haven t 
 done any work for two years, and it would be dreadfully 
 hard to get back into condition. It s exciting, that s the 
 only trouble and I often long for the excitement." 
 
 "I bet you do," murmured Carey. 
 
 She smiled at his intentness. It was in marked con 
 trast to Springer s obvious indifference. Carey felt she 
 wanted his friend to show more interest. She appealed 
 to him unconsciously on every topic that came up. Con 
 tinually she sought his approval, absurdly and pathetically 
 dreading the lack of it. Carey decided that she was more 
 infatuated with Springer than in love with him. He felt 
 sorry for her. Springer regarded her, he knew, as some 
 exotic flower by which to be amused, from which to in 
 hale the perfume, to be enjoyed for an idle hour. A wave 
 of dizzying emotion swept over Carey at the thought of 
 how eagerly he would return her affection were he in 
 Springer s place. 
 
228 THE AMATEUR 
 
 They were still discussing the advisability of her going 
 back to the stage. Carey was absorbed in everything she 
 said. As he leaned toward her, his elbows on the table, 
 he was aware of a delicious fragrance that emanated 
 from her. It was the subtlest of perfumes, but not the 
 less intoxicatingly sweet. She was a ravishing creature. 
 He noted in turn the tiny transparent lobe of her ear, 
 the soft triangle of pink flesh beneath it formed by her 
 hair and the curve of her cheek, -the limpid, glistening 
 eyes, so bright and clear, elongated and narrowing toward 
 her temples, the delicate, sensitive nostril, the cupid s 
 bow of her red lips that now and then parted in a smile 
 that showed her twinkling teeth. But it was the swiftly 
 changing colour in her cheek that fascinated him. Bend 
 ing close, he watched it come and go, flooding her face a 
 warm pink when she laughed heartily, leaving it an 
 alabaster white when it ebbed. He could barely discern 
 the fine particles of powder upon her nose. Only in the 
 elongation of the almond-shaped eyes did she betray her 
 class. It was a very slight sign, but it was unmistakable. 
 
 So intent was he in studying her that he unconsciously 
 leaned further toward her than he intended. He was 
 made aware of the absurdity of his attitude by Springer s 
 laugh. 
 
 "Good Lord, man! You ll bore two holes straight 
 through the woman if you stare at her that way! Have 
 a heart!" 
 
 Myra reached for his hand and drew it into her lap. 
 
 "Now, let him alone," she said. "I like Mr. Carey 
 Williams very much." 
 
 Carey s head swam. The touch of her long, slim 
 fingers sent the blood pounding from his heart. He 
 knew he was blushing; his face burnt as if it was afire. 
 They both laughed at him, and he feebly attempted to 
 
THE AMATEUR 229 
 
 join them. He tried to concentrate his mind, watching 
 Springer tap the end of a cigarette against the back of 
 his hand to shift the tobacco from its mouthpiece; but 
 the touch of her slim fingers still lingered; the palms of 
 his hands were moist and his lips were dry and hard. 
 
 He did not regain control of himself even when they 
 were outside, although the nimble wind of the night was 
 like a dash of cold water in his face. It was tacitly under 
 stood that he was to leave them now. They would drop 
 into some vaudeville show or garden of pleasure before 
 they went home. Carey turned to Myra and she held out 
 her hand. Springer was giving an order to the starter 
 for a taxicab. As Carey s fingers closed gently over the 
 girl s, a wild desire rose in his heart to have her know 
 how much he liked her. 
 
 "We both are good friends of his," he said, "and I 
 want you and I to be good friends as well." 
 
 The smile was whipped from her lips as she looked up 
 into Carey s eyes, her own troubled and serious. 
 
 "You love him, too," she whispered. "I know it. Let 
 me have him as long as I can hold him. Promise you ll 
 help me!" 
 
 Carey drew a trembling breath; his lips quivered; a 
 slight dizziness blurred the exquisite features so near 
 his own. 
 
 "I promise. But when that is is over, will you promise 
 me something!" he stammered. 
 
 "Yes anything," she answered carelessly. 
 
 He helped her into the taxi-cab and waved to Springer 
 who leaned out of the window as they whirled away. 
 
 Carey walked home. That Myra was a prostitute, that 
 she was deliberately deceiving the man to whom she had 
 sold her virtue, that she was lost to all sense of decency, 
 
230 THE AMATEUR 
 
 mattered not to Carey. She seemed to him wonderfully 
 beautiful, young and pure. And Springer was so clean 
 and fine and handsome. He speculated on their mating, 
 and it struck him that there could be nothing vile or 
 sordid about it. They were so young, so perfectly made, 
 so god-like. His heart ached for some such experience of 
 his own. It was the call of the female that stirred him. 
 It was spring, and all the world was mating. There was 
 nothing sensual about this yearning. With Anna Blanch- 
 ard, it had been the animal in him that awakened. She 
 had roused a side of his nature of which, until then, he 
 had been unconscious. But now, he was lonely. He 
 wanted a comrade, a woman whom he could love and 
 protect, and who would love him in return, love him the 
 way Myra loved. God ! He d work his two hands to the 
 bone for such a love. It was the most precious thing in 
 life! Some day, sometime, some woman would learn 
 how deeply he could love. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 CROWDING events that pursued Carey these days 
 were brought to an abrupt halt by the arrival of a 
 special delivery letter from Joe Downer. Carey had 
 gone with Springer to a dance at one of the Columbia 
 College fraternity houses the night before, and had 
 reached his bed after six o clock in the morning. It was 
 the persistent ringing of the postman at a quarter past 
 eight that finally roused him. His first sensation, as he 
 sat upon the side of his bed, while the electric bell con 
 tinued its compelling summons, was that he had smoked 
 too much. His mouth was brassy, his throat burned. 
 Sleep clung to him tenaciously, weighing down his eye 
 lids, while his head swung helplessly from side to side. 
 Between each prolonged vibration of the bell, he lapsed 
 back into complete unconsciousness. A peremptory 
 knock, added to the irritating whirring, at last brought 
 him to sufficient wake fulness to stumble to the door, 
 dazedly open it, sign for, and receive the letter. 
 
 When he again awoke, it was almost two in the after 
 noon. On the table lay the letter where he had dropped 
 it before he had fallen back into bed. Now, with his 
 mind clear, he picked it up and turned it over in his hand, 
 a disquieting apprehension filling his heart. He knew it 
 was about his mother before he opened it, and, simultane 
 ously with the thought of her, there rose within him an 
 
 231 
 
232 THE AMATEUR 
 
 accusing sense of neglectfulness. He had failed her as 
 he had failed his father. There were so many things he 
 might have done that would have brightened her life. 
 With a fervent hope that his fear was unfounded and 
 that there still remained time in which he could make 
 reparation, he forced his finger under the flap and burst 
 the envelope open. 
 
 His apprehension was correct. Joe wrote his cus 
 tomary page or so of rambling inconsequences : Carey 
 must be prepared for a terrible shock, he had not wired, 
 and so on and so on, he wished he might tell Carey what 
 he must, instead of writing it. Every one knew what a 
 bad hand he was at writing 
 
 Carey impatiently turned the page and his eye leaped 
 half way down it until he caught the word "mother." 
 From there on he read and re-read the words, and when 
 he had finished the letter he sat with the sheets held limply 
 in his hand, gazing with a cold, blank stare vacantly 
 before him. 
 
 It was cancer. For some months, his mother had com 
 plained of internal pains, and Joe had urged her to see 
 a doctor. Mrs. Williams would not consent ; she scoffed 
 at the idea, refusing to consider the matter. But one of 
 her friends finally persuaded her, and the terrible fact 
 was at once discovered. Mrs. Williams was not told the 
 result of the diagnosis. It was too late to operate; it 
 was only a question of time ; it might be weeks ; she might 
 live for a couple of years. The doctors did not know, but 
 both physicians who had made the examination thought 
 that her son should come home at once. 
 
 As he sat there, unseeing, there occurred to Carey 
 instance after instance of his mother s gentleness and 
 goodness, countless evidences of her love for himself, her 
 patience and forbearance. He could match every one of 
 
THE AMATEUR 233 
 
 these with a thoughtless, unkind act of his own. Hers 
 had not been a happy life. Simple and shy, of limited 
 mentality, she had married a man to whom she was ut 
 terly unsuited. The responsibility lay, probably, with 
 her husband. She would have married any man who had 
 asked her. Carey s father had remedied his mistake in 
 a ruthless, characteristic manner, but his wife had had to 
 endure the results of hers to the bitter end. She had 
 lived on, harassed by business cares, deserted by both hus 
 band and son, beset by imaginary worries, alone, with 
 but one or two old women like herself to count upon as 
 friends, finally to be afflicted by a lingering and offen 
 sive disease that must inevitably prove fatal! 
 
 As he sat holding his head in his hands, Carey, with all 
 the strength he possessed, gripped his throbbing temples 
 as if to strangle the pain of his regret. He felt he could 
 not wait to see his mother again. The memory of all 
 his petty grievances against her, the oft-repeated accusa 
 tion that she had lost her capacity to sympathise with 
 him, her doubts and mistrust of him, the instances of her 
 petulant nagging, all were swept away in the surge of 
 blinding pity and love that filled his heart. He gave no 
 consideration now to his work, or his career, or to his 
 one and twenty self-indulgences. The thought of Myra, 
 even of unoffending Cecilia, sickened him. The only 
 pang was at the thought of parting from Springer, 
 Springer, with whom he was to have spent the summer, 
 Springer, with whom he was to have shared a studio next 
 year! 
 
 As if some telepathic manner of communication ex 
 isted between them and Springer had unconsciously be 
 come aware of Carey s distress, the telephone which 
 Carey had muffled so that he would be able to sleep that 
 morning at this moment began to click feebly. Carey 
 
234 THE AMATEUR 
 
 would have been surprised if any other voice had replied 
 to his "Hello!" 
 
 "Are you awake yet?" 
 
 "Yes. I want to see you right away." 
 
 "Can t come now. I m only in my underclothes. You 
 come down." 
 
 "No, I m just out of bed. Hurry into something. 
 It s important. I m in trouble and I ve got to see you." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 It was hardly a minute before Springer, clad in an 
 army shirt and painting trousers, his feet in wicker san 
 dals, squatted tailor-fashion on Carey s bed, a cigarette 
 between his lips, the drops of water still glistening in his 
 hair from the sousing to which he subjected it every 
 morning. 
 
 Carey told him about his mother. 
 
 "It s as little as I can do," he concluded. "I don t 
 know how long I shall have to be away. It rather knocks 
 our plans on the head. I hoped that you and I " 
 
 Springer interrupted him. 
 
 "I know I know. We ll have to postpone that. I ll 
 stick round here till July, and then I may run down to 
 Wilmington to see Jenkins. Perhaps you will be back 
 by October. I ll wait for you Tilley doesn t want to 
 move. Now, you d better get out of here at once. There s 
 always a train for Chicago any time of day. Sling what 
 you will want right away into your suitcase, and I ll send 
 your trunk after you. How are you off for cash?" 
 
 It was the attitude that this calamity was a mutual 
 sorrow and must be mutually borne that Carey found so 
 generous and characteristic of Springer. He had just 
 experienced a feeling of being left alone in the world, 
 and it warmed his heart to realise the depth and perma 
 nence of this friendship. 
 
THE AMATEUR 235 
 
 The same thought returned to him again as the train 
 began its dark passage through the black tunnels by which 
 it wormed its way out from beneath the city. There was 
 Joe, too faithful, clumsy Joe. He could count on these 
 two friends, and while his mother was permitted to live, 
 he would show her a devotion that would make up to some 
 extent for the years she had wanted it and found it 
 lacking. 
 
 Home again. It was very different from his last home 
 coming. He had returned six months before, still a boy, 
 with a boy s whining grievances against the world, ex 
 travagant in his speech, arrogant in his opinions. He con 
 sidered he knew much more of the world now ; things in 
 his home town struck him as being more provincial than 
 ever; his mental horizon had broadened; he had entered 
 into man s estate. 
 
 There was no question that he had changed. His 
 clothes had the smartness he had copied from Springer, 
 and he had acquired something of Springer s genial man 
 ner and free-limbed carriage. There was some subtle 
 difference in him as well. Joe remarked upon it when 
 he met him at the station; some quality in Carey by 
 which Joe had held his affection in the past seemed gone. 
 It rather flattered Carey to think that the change in him 
 was so obvious. He hoped his old friends of the Pen and 
 Brush Club would notice it. 
 
 Thinking only of the change in himself, Carey was 
 unprepared for the terrible change he found in his mother. 
 The healthy, brown warmth of her cheeks had 
 changed to the pallid greyness of a tallow candle; her 
 hair was the same, but thinner, and wisps of it 
 hung about her ears where before it had always been 
 bound so snugly; her eyes had dropped back into their 
 
236 THE AMATEUR 
 
 sockets and the cheek bones had become more prom 
 inent; her lips had begun to pucker like the mouth of a 
 draw-string bag. Carey buried his face in the lap of 
 the thin silk dress she wore, and tears marked both their 
 faces as his mother smoothed his hair with gentle, feeble 
 strokes. Not for a long time had mother and son felt 
 so close to one another. 
 
 In the weeks that followed, Carey carried out his re 
 solve to make what reparation was possible for his past 
 neglect. It was more difficult than he imagined, for his 
 mother was querulous and exacting. Her son never knew 
 whether or not she recognised the nature of her ailment. 
 She never admitted it, but always spoke of being well 
 again soon and of coming to visit him in New York. 
 There was always talk of a new serum the doctor 
 was going to give her. She never despaired of recov 
 ery. The disease, however, affected her mind and the 
 nature of her thoughts. Carey was continually called 
 upon to agree with her in the most flagrantly inaccurate 
 assertions. Strange hallucinations regarding his father 
 possessed her. One of these was that her husband had 
 been a drunkard. She worked herself into an alarming 
 state of agitation on the day she confided this to Carey, 
 assuring him that, up to the present moment, she had kept 
 the fact "locked in the fastness of her heart for twenty 
 years/ Her son had been given every chance to retain 
 and cultivate his natural love for his father. She had 
 never so much as hinted to him of his father s weakness. 
 She had felt it was only fair to her boy and to the man 
 whose son he was, that he should respect and look up 
 to him. Carey must not judge his father by his unwar 
 ranted treatment of herself. She had her short-comings 
 and, presumably, she had not done all she might have 
 done to make him happy. What woman was perfect? 
 
THE AMATEUR 237 
 
 But she had been faithful to him and borne him a son, a 
 fine son, of whom he would have been justly proud. 
 She did not deserve to be thrust aside like a worn-out 
 glove, to be cast into the discard as worthless, a faded, 
 used up ... 
 
 Tears would interrupt this broken recital, which was 
 resumed again as soon as Carey had sufficiently com 
 forted her. For many years afterwards he recalled those 
 summer afternoons. No matter what the weather, there 
 was always a tiny fire that smouldered and flickered in the 
 grate. His mother derived a certain comfort from the 
 companionable little flame, and Carey arranged for this 
 fire to be laid every morning and throughout the day 
 kept it gently replenished. About ten o clock sometimes 
 an hour later his mother would come down the stairs, 
 one careful step at a time, the arm of faithful old Mrs. 
 Harris, who was companion, nurse and housekeeper all 
 in one, firmly about her. Carey usually met them at the 
 foot of the stairs to catch her arm and hand when the 
 balustrade s support ended. 
 
 Invariably he asked as he kissed her : 
 
 "What kind of a night, mother?" 
 
 Invariably she shook her head slowly, shutting her eyes 
 at its memory. 
 
 "Pain pain. I don t sleep very well, my son." 
 
 Then, through the long hours of what remained of the 
 morning, and through the longer hours of the afternoon, 
 she would sit in her black wicker armchair by the little 
 grate fire, a knitted, beribboned shawl about her shoul 
 ders, reciting to Carey, who usually sat on a pillow, cross- 
 legged at her feet, the sad and happy reminiscences of 
 her life. Outside, the hot, western sunshine streamed 
 down unbroken on flat, hard sidewalks ; behind them, the 
 lace curtains at the front windows gently bellied out into 
 
238 THE AMATEUR 
 
 the room with every puff of wind. Beside the black coal 
 and the wavering flame in the grate, a tall bunch of pam 
 pas plumes stood on the hearthstone in a china umbrella 
 rack, promoted to that service years before ; on the oppo 
 site side was an onyx-topped, spindle-legged table on 
 which reposed a Rogers group entitled Taking the Oath 
 and Drawing Rations, acquired by the family with 
 other heirlooms when Carey s father s sister had died. 
 These two things, and the coal hod and fender, were all 
 that came within the limited range of his vision. Above 
 his head, the black shadow of the broad mantel and its 
 dark crimson lambrequin hung oppressively. With a 
 cadence that now furiously hurried, and now irritatingly 
 lagged behind, the ticking of the old brass clock that 
 stood with its back against the gigantic mirror above 
 the mantel, kept up a constant, thin, minor accompani 
 ment to the complaining notes of his mother s voice. 
 
 Carey s mind wandered. It was unutterably sad to sit 
 beside his dying mother and listen to the reminiscences of 
 her gay youth, alternated with bitter criticism of his 
 father. It was easier to give her his apparent attention 
 and let his thoughts carry him back to New York and 
 Springer, his cosy studio waiting for him, and the work 
 he had just begun. Staring into the fire-light, he used to 
 picture Broadway by day, and again by night. He saw 
 the hurrying streams of people that passed each other on 
 either side of the street, the crawling lines of trolley cars, 
 the unending succession of teams and automobiles, all 
 hemmed in between the unbroken ranks of shops and 
 office buildings and theatres, theatres, office buildings and 
 shops, a colossal thoroughfare, the great, throbbing 
 artery of the city. Then, with the dusk, came the fire 
 signs, pricking themselves out of the half light, growing 
 more gorgeous and more brilliant with the vanishing 
 
THE AMATEUR 239 
 
 lay. Sputtering white arc lights, the glowing eyes of 
 notor cars, the glare of electrics from the brilliant in- 
 eriors of shops and restaurants, the reflections of pow- 
 rful lamps upon huge advertisements lifted high upon 
 ;ome fagade or building top, pendent balls of fire, orange 
 md violet, lights, lights, a magnificent prodigality of 
 hem flashing, winking, glowing, making it a fairy- 
 and of glory. And he could hear the great noise of the 
 street, that rose, a harsh, pulsing droning by day, chang- 
 ng to a sustained, high vibration by night. 
 
 He saw himself with Springer in the lounge-lined cafe 
 it Martin s, drinking something from tall glasses, lean- 
 ng elbows on the marble-topped tables, smoking innum- 
 rable cigarettes, while the pile of saucers that indicated 
 he number and amount of their orders grew higher 
 md higher. Then they were dining at the Hofbrau, 
 and he could hear again the jangle of the bell that an 
 nounced the opening of a fresh keg of beer. There was 
 Louis, the red-headed waiter at Moquin s, who always 
 found them Camembert cheese of the proper ripeness, and 
 set it before them with a flourish, never omitting the ex- 
 :lamation : 
 
 "Voild, Messieurs! Le frontage qui marche tout seul!" 
 There was Luchow s and the Chat Noir and Browne s 
 hop House, and the Cafe des Ambassadeurs, and the 
 gay Yacht Room at the Arena, and the White Horse 
 Tavern, and the Cafe Boulevard, and Jack s, always 
 Jack s, befittingly last. Glorious memories they seemed 
 to him, even those he had shared with Jerry Hart. He 
 found it hard now to condemn his former companion. 
 If he stopped to consider the matter, Jerry was a con 
 temptible rascal, of course but he and Carey had had 
 some splendid times together at Van Cortland Park, at 
 
240 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Coney Island, roaming the city with only a few dimes 
 and quarters jingling in their pockets! 
 
 Out of the haze of these happy recollections, the fea 
 tures of one exquisite face persistently haunted him. 
 Myra, with the tip of her porcelain ear showing just 
 below the brown waves of her soft hair, the swift chang 
 ing colour beneath her transparent skin, her limpid, glis 
 tening eyes, elongated, narrowing toward her temples. It 
 was that characteristic of her eyes which pursued him, 
 the one flaw in otherwise perfect beauty, the one indica 
 tion that betrayed the coarseness of her soul. Had he 
 been less simple and unsophisticated, he might have found 
 it repulsive, a distressing blemish. As it was, it drew 
 his attention as an imperfection that emphasised her love 
 liness. It fascinated him as might the thumb mark of 
 a thief upon a clear bit of window glass. 
 
 After his mother had gone to bed, Carey used to spend 
 most of his evenings with Joe. They acquired the habit 
 of playing cribbage together, and sat up often until mid 
 night. Joe was still the same even-tempered, quiet, hum 
 ble friend, loving in the same dog-like fashion. It was 
 irritating at times, but, in his heart, Carey genuinely ap 
 preciated his devotion. He returned Joe s affection in 
 his own way; Joe would always be the rock foundation 
 upon which he built his life. It was inevitable they should 
 drift apart, however, with the many and varied interests 
 that had come into Carey s life. The subtle change that 
 had distressed Joe was that he was no longer necessary 
 to Carey. When they had been together in New York, 
 and even during the last visit home at Christmas, the 
 boy had confided unreservedly in his older friend. He 
 had told him about the Fillmore household and his work, 
 about Jerry Hart and Anna, had even analysed and dis- 
 
THE AMATEUR 241 
 
 cussed his impulses and most intimate feelings with him. 
 Now, Joe was conscious of a certain reserve and self- 
 reliance that Carey had not displayed before. The dif 
 ference in their relationship was apparent also to Carey, 
 but he could not bring himself to tell Joe about Springer 
 or the episode of Cecilia, always to be an unpleasant 
 recollection. It was not to be thought of, that he should 
 mention Myra. Joe would resent Springer s influence 
 and, being incapable of understanding such a character, 
 would disparage him in the clumsy way Carey knew so 
 well. With regard to Cecilia, he would be certain to 
 exonerate Carey and characterise the girl as an adven 
 turess. Myra would appear to him as nothing more or 
 less than a woman of the streets. 
 
 Carey told Joe, however, about the success he had 
 made with his pretty-girl heads; and, as days stretched 
 into weeks and weeks into months, and his mother s con 
 dition did not vary, he sent for some bundles of straw- 
 board and set to work once more. Joe offered him his 
 studio, and Carey spent an hour or so there every after 
 noon. 
 
 One of the orders he received in his forwarded mail, 
 was from a calendar publishing company, which made 
 him two offers, one a cash payment of five thousand 
 dollars for twelve heads, the other to compensate 
 him on a royalty basis. Joe urged him to agree to 
 the latter only and insisted that Carey demand a con 
 tract. Other commissions he received that pleased him 
 were an order for six heads from Society, a high-grade 
 fashion periodical, one from The Feminine World for 
 the cover of their Christmas issue, and a commission 
 for a single head from Hawkins and Cooper, a big ad 
 vertising agency, for which they offered him five hundred 
 dollars. Two heads, he had sent, unsolicited, to Mirth, 
 
242 THE AMATEUR 
 
 were both accepted at three hundred dollars apiece. It 
 was a delightful thought, that his work would appear 
 simultaneously on various periodicals, and so many covers 
 by the same man were bound to attract attention. New 
 York would recognise him, not the editors, nor even 
 the magazine readers, but the city itself ! One particu 
 lar order indicating that this possibility was not far dis 
 tant, came from the office of Charles Claridge, the theat 
 rical manager, who wanted a life-size likeness of Ethel 
 Harricot, one of his leading stars, noted for her glorious 
 crown of red hair, who was to go en tour in repertoire. 
 For this poster he asked and received five hundred dollars. 
 
 As the demand for his work increased in New York, 
 it was somewhat irritating to realise that very few in his 
 home city knew anything about it. His acquaintances 
 met him on the street and inquired with a pleasant interest 
 how he was getting along. They all assumed that he 
 had failed and had come home again to make the best 
 living he could at his old work. They clapped him on the 
 back and said : 
 
 "Well, New York s a hard place, I hear; I m glad 
 you re back again. Hope you stay." Others who knew 
 him more intimately and were aware of his mother s 
 condition felt called upon to add, after they had enquired 
 about her: "Guess you re glad to be home. Home s 
 good enough for me! I thought to myself, when you 
 went to New York, that boy won t stand it long among 
 those cold-blooded folk. Our boys always come home." 
 
 Carey listened patiently and smiled, but he hated them 
 in his heart. After the first cynical smile which one of 
 them had assumed when Carey explained that he was 
 only home for a visit and would return to New York 
 shortly, he kept the information to himself and left them 
 to their own inferences. It was hard to be patient. He 
 
THE AMATEUR 243 
 
 passionately longed to be back in the city where his ability 
 was recognised and he commanded respect and attention. 
 He suspected that even Joe did not appreciate what a 
 success he had already made. 
 
 He tried to satisfy himself with long letters to 
 Springer. They were full of questions which Springer 
 never answered, when he actually accomplished the feat 
 of a reply. Springer could not write letters, or, rather, 
 the effort it cost him was so irksome that he would not. 
 A month passed after Carey reached home before he 
 received any word from him and then it only came in re 
 sponse to an insistent telegram. His communications 
 were confined to comments on the weather, which was 
 always hot; to the fact that he was well, and he hoped 
 Carey was likewise, and that his mother was "mending" ; 
 everybody was out of town, and he hoped Carey would 
 soon be back. Such, in varying forms, constituted his 
 communications. Only once did he mention Myra, and 
 that in the first that Carey received. He wrote : "Myra 
 sends love!" The message thrilled Carey; he often 
 thought about it. 
 
 July passed, hot and dusty; August followed, a little 
 hotter, a little more dusty. September dragged out its 
 existence, with a promise of rain from day to day, that 
 was never fulfilled. Even the townspeople complained of 
 the weather; but to Carey it seemed suffocating, insup 
 portable. A west wind, that invariably sprang up in the 
 afternoon, blew the smoke from the tall factory chim 
 neys across the river down through the streets, and into 
 the open windows of the houses. It was a thick, dirty 
 smoke, reeking with the odour of chemicals, brassy and 
 poisonous. Carey grew to dread the nauseating stench of 
 
244 THE AMATEUR 
 
 it; he wondered how he ever had been able to be happy 
 in his home city. 
 
 He found disillusion also at the Pen and Brush Club, 
 once his delight. The members now seemed utterly com 
 placent, satisfied with their own petty achievements, prais 
 ing and criticising each other s work, fostering the idea 
 that theirs was a rarefied circle, undefiled by commercial 
 ism, where Art was pursued for Art s sake alone. In 
 their hearts, Carey told himself, it was self-distrust and 
 fear that actuated them; not one of them could sell his 
 picture or poem, or whatever it was he produced. Those 
 who had succeeded in earning a living by their work had 
 gone to New York. 
 
 Carey would give vent to his contempt and indigna 
 tion in long talks with Joe after their cribbage was over. 
 Joe would listen placidly, slowly nodding his head in tacit 
 agreement with Carey s arraignment of his former club- 
 mates. But one of Joe s mild comments made Carey 
 wonder, when he recalled it later, whether Joe was in 
 as perfect accord with him on this and other subjects as 
 he appeared. 
 
 "I wonder if your meteoric success hasn t turned your 
 head a bit, boy," Joe had said. "If there didn t happen 
 to be a demand for your work, would you feel about the 
 fellows at the Club the same way? Poetry is a drug on 
 the market ; some of what the boys have written, perhaps 
 you will admit, is better Art and more worth while than 
 a girl s head you are able to dash off in an hour and sell 
 for five hundred dollars." 
 
 Carey had been too interested in his own point of view 
 to reply to this particular argument. Afterwards, it 
 recurred to him, and the more he thought about it the 
 more he was nettled. It was all very well for Joe to 
 talk ; he was not better off than the rest of em ; he would 
 
THE AMATEUR 245 
 
 be obliged to get behind a counter and sell haberdashery 
 or silk-by-the-yard if it weren t for the snug fifty dollars 
 a month his father s insurance brought him! Nobody 
 had given him a helping hand. He had won his laurels 
 by his own brain. He had used only five hundred dollars 
 of his inheritance ! The thought of the twenty-two thou 
 sand that would be his in a few months, to do with as he 
 pleased, drove the irritation at Joe s dubious remarks out 
 of his head. 
 
 October brought the delayed rain, and as if Nature 
 were inclined to make up for her neglect, the water 
 streamed down out of the sky; it rolled off the roofs, 
 choking the drain pipes ; the gutters spouted. The clouds 
 would break tantalisingly, revealing a patch of blue, then 
 form again in a thick, leaden mass to deluge the city 
 like a saturated sponge in a giant s hand. 
 
 With windows tightly closed, the fire blazing brightly, 
 his mother would sit in her black wicker armchair, and 
 tell Carey for the thousandth time how his father had 
 come home night after night to be helped upstairs by the 
 cabman, falling insensate upon the bed, or turning upon 
 her with coarse, abusive language. Again and again he 
 must listen to the long account of how she had protected 
 him from ever learning his father s weakness, that natu 
 ral affection might not be checked. Outside, the rain 
 would beat steadily against the windows, maintaining a 
 monotonous roar upon the tin roof over the kitchen porch. 
 Inside, the air would grow uncomfortably warm and 
 close; the fire would crackle and snap; the brass clock 
 would tick its uneven accompaniment to the complaining 
 voice that went on and on, querulously, unceasingly. 
 
 "I will stick it out!" Carey told himself fiercely. "It 
 can t be much longer; I ll always be glad of it the rest of 
 my life." 
 
246 THE AMATEUR 
 
 He had a real letter from Springer the following week, 
 incoherent in places, but full of the gossip and informa 
 tion for which Carey s heart ached. Springer wanted 
 to know "when the hell he was coming back" ; Tilley was 
 going to get married, a fat heiress, and Mark Harri 
 son wanted him to take a studio apartment on East Tenth 
 Street. He d much prefer waiting for Carey, if he knew 
 what his plans were. He understood the situation and 
 how hard it was for Carey to answer him; but, if it 
 looked as if he wouldn t be back for some time to come, 
 Springer guessed he d have to take up Harrison s propo 
 sition. He knew Carey would see the point. They 
 missed him very much, everybody was talking about 
 his work and asking when he was going to return. Myra 
 was threatening to quit Cunningham Bates and go back 
 to the stage. He hadn t seen her for a long time. There 
 was a new girl he was crazy about she was studying 
 singing going into opera. She had a wonderful voice 
 and could trill like a nightingale. Her name was Violet 
 Burns, had a sister, and the two lived at the Hotel 
 Grenoble. Carey would guess a long time before he could 
 think of whom Springer had met up there at tea one 
 afternoon. Cecilia Shaughnessy! She had been quite 
 decent and had asked about Carey, whose work, it ap 
 peared, had given her a lot of publicity. On account of 
 it she had done very well as a professional accompanist. 
 People spoke of her as the girl with the Carey Williams 
 hair. Springer thought she was better looking than she 
 used to be. It was stupid trotting round town alone. He 
 had gone on a swell party on Columbus Day. A young 
 actor named Gerald Crofts, who had a bunch of kale, had 
 taken a crowd of his friends in his big motor boat down 
 to the Larchmont Yacht Club. The club was out of 
 commission, but Crofts had arranged for a swell meal. 
 
THE AMATEUR 247 
 
 There had been eighteen of them, and they had danced 
 till five o clock in the morning, everybody "lit to the 
 eyes." The shows were all rotten; he and Harrison had 
 been going to Hammer stein s. Did Carey want to join 
 the Salmagundi Club? He had just become a member 
 and was having a lot of fun with the fellows who be 
 longed. They had had a masquerade and Springer had 
 never seen such stunning costumes. 
 
 Carey read the letter once a day, and sometimes 
 oftener. In his longing to share with some one the ex 
 quisite joy and delight it gave him, he read it aloud to 
 Joe Downer in a moment of exuberant spirits. Joe was 
 at work lettering some window cards for a kodak store. 
 He made no comment upon Carey s enthusiasm, and 
 Carey, suspecting disapproval in his silence, turned 
 angrily upon him. 
 
 "God ! Joe, you make me mad ! Can t you be polite, 
 can t you say something decent instead of sitting there 
 like an oyster ? I read this letter to you because it meant 
 a lot to me ; I supposed you d be interested !" 
 
 Joe looked at him, surprised at the outburst. He was 
 too honest to lie. 
 
 "I didn t say anything, did I, Carey ? I don t approve 
 of such people, and that kind of high life doesn t appeal 
 to me. I can t think your friend Springer is the sort of a 
 person I like to see you so intimate with. Feeling these 
 things, I thought it better to keep still than to say any 
 thing at all, and now you jump me because " 
 
 Carey seized his hat and umbrella, and cut Joe s words 
 off by slamming the studio door behind him. He strode 
 out into the wet street, his nerves breaking his control, a 
 raging desire burning in his heart to run down Front 
 Street to the great glass-roofed terminal and jump aboard 
 the next train for New York. 
 
248 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "New York ^New York New York." 
 
 The words sang in his ears, in his brain, and in his 
 heart. He hated the rambling frame residences, the lop 
 sided, brick houses, the yellow-tinted office buildings, the 
 new court house, proudly pointed out, the over-head trol 
 ley wires, the cobble stones in the street, everything about 
 his native city that was different from New York. And 
 there wasn t a single thing about it that faintly resembled 
 New York ! He hated every stick and nail and stone that 
 made it. He hated the fat, smug people, with their lag 
 ging walk; their habit of chatting in groups in the post- 
 office, in the banks, on the corners ; their rotten, malicious 
 gossip. He hated his patronising, self-satisfied, pompous 
 friends, every one of them yes Joe included. He 
 hated Joe Downer. 
 
 "My God ! Why doesn t she die !" 
 
 He strode along a few steps, until the meaning of the 
 words he had spoken aloud penetrated his excited brain. 
 Then he stopped and stood still upon the curbing of the 
 sidewalk, gazing down at the tiny torrent that gurgled in 
 the gutter at his feet, while the rain beat down, steadily, 
 vertically, persistently upon the roof of his umbrella. 
 
 The fire of revolt that had been smouldering in his 
 heart for weeks had finally burst into flame. There was 
 no longer any reason to continue his self-delusion. The 
 words that had sprung involuntarily to his lips had be 
 trayed the secret he had been trying to hide. Face to 
 face with what seemed to him his rotten selfish soul, he 
 had honestly to admit that he had been silently wishing 
 this thing day by day for many weeks. Deliverance! 
 That was what he had been praying for; the smashing of 
 the chains that bound him fast to his enforced duty, gall 
 ing and chafing his spirit. Night and day he dreamed of 
 New York, its freedom, its pleasures, its wild exhilara- 
 
THE AMATEUR 249 
 
 tion, its furious pace. He recognised in himself the per 
 sonification of buoyant youth; New York was made for 
 such as he. It was no place for the old, the weaklings, 
 the failures. 
 
 But it was not in him to desert his mother. It never 
 occurred to him to do that. The wish that had been 
 growing in his heart, which the spoken words revealed, 
 seemed to him unforgivable, a wish of hell, that only a 
 debauched and shrivelled soul could possibly conceive. 
 
 Slowly he walked home. He thought he had been mak 
 ing reparation to his mother for his former neglect and 
 thoughtlessness; he must now make reparation for the 
 atrocious desire that he knew he should never be able to 
 stifle. 
 
 It was horrible, the thought that, while he bent over 
 to kiss her, or fetched her shawl, or put his arm about 
 her to support her unsteady steps, or tucked the Afghan 
 quilt about her knees, deep in his heart was a passionate 
 desire for that freedom which only her death could give. 
 
 Carey redoubled his efforts to be attentive to her, read 
 ing aloud to her, bringing her meals to her bedside, in 
 venting ways of amusing her. He even declined the 
 orders that came ever more persistently from New York, 
 that he might spend more time with her. The desire to 
 cheer and comfort her gave place to the grim satisfaction 
 of self -punishment. There ceased to be any pleasure in 
 his devotion; he drove himself through the days, hour 
 by hour. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 MRS. WILLIAMS died on the nineteenth of Novem 
 ber. She had been for some time under the in 
 fluence of morphine, and steadily increased doses brought 
 on frequent states of coma, during one of which she 
 passed quietly away. 
 
 Carey was deeply affected. The intense love for his 
 mother that he had experienced in The Rembrandt Stu 
 dios when Joe s letter apprised him of her condition came 
 surging back, bringing memories of her tenderness and 
 unfailing devotion. There was a comforting and wholly 
 satisfying thought that, in the six months she had been 
 permitted to live, he had somewhat repaid her. There 
 was not a single moment when he had showed her any 
 thing but kindness and gentle consideration. He had not 
 weakened in his determination; it was a gratification to 
 remember how sorely he had been tempted. He felt 
 himself a better, stronger man. Mixed with these mo 
 tions was the overwhelming sense of relief, the joy of 
 freedom, the delight, he already commenced to anticipate, 
 of returning to New York. 
 
 It was nearly three weeks after the funeral before he 
 was able to get away. There was his mother s meagre 
 property to settle, her debts to pay, her affairs to arrange. 
 Carey put these matters into Joe s hands, but he was 
 obliged to remain and help, for they found things in a 
 
 250 
 
THE AMATEUR 251 
 
 ridiculously tangled condition, almost impossible to 
 straighten out. He insisted that Joe should sell off the 
 real estate, even at a loss, pay the mortgages, and deposit 
 what little remained in a local bank. Carey was deter 
 mined to wash his hands forever of his native city. The 
 estate, when entirely cleaned up, should net him some 
 thing between seven and eight thousand dollars. Joe was 
 to receive an administrator s fee for attending to the 
 matter. 
 
 It was a cold, crisp day toward the middle of Decem 
 ber, when, with a heavily-burdened redcap at his heels, 
 he made his way up a temporary platform in the dis 
 mantled Grand Central Station, and saw the grinning 
 countenances of Springer and Mark Harrison among the 
 eager faces of the waiting crowd. Carey could only 
 wring their hands, looking from one to the other. He 
 had so often thought about his coming back to New York 
 that, now that the moment had arrived, he was too much 
 overwhelmed at the idea that he was actually in the city 
 again to think consecutively or to act rationally. They 
 all began to talk at once, Carey interrupting them every 
 moment to exclaim : 
 
 "Isn t it wonderful wonderful ! I can t believe it yet ! 
 It s too good to be true ! My God, boys, you don t know 
 what I ve been through !" 
 
 Harrison insisted upon their going across the street to 
 the new Belmont Hotel bar to get a drink; but, before 
 they went, Springer dragged him over to the news stand 
 to show him six magazines, side by side in the first row 
 on the counter; each of their cover designs was his work. 
 It was staggering. There in concrete form it was almost 
 ridiculous. Carey s head swam in a bewildering whirl 
 pool of delightful emotion. His friends were here on 
 either side; before him lay the evidence of his success; 
 
252 THE AMATEUR 
 
 every one was wanting his work ; every one was praising 
 it; New York eagerly waited to receive him. He stood 
 on the threshold of his kingdom. 
 
 Rebounding from the suppression and stifling 
 monotony of his six months at home, Carey was swept 
 off his feet in the tumultuous rush of an elation greater 
 than he had ever known. It was never clear in his mind 
 what happened that day. He was drunk with excitement 
 before one glass of liquor touched his lips; he was unde 
 niably intoxicated by the time he had taken four. It 
 seemed to him afterwards that he had been drunk and had 
 sobered up half a dozen times during the day. The three 
 spent several hours at a Turkish bath during the after 
 noon, and dined at Shanley s toward eight o clock. There 
 was one act of a comic opera Carey remembered sitting 
 through, and much later an altercation between Springer, 
 a hack driver and a policeman. In the morning, he found 
 himself alone in a small, second-rate hotel, the name of 
 which he forgot to ascertain, when, with head still swim 
 ming, he wandered out into the brilliant, cold street. It 
 was not the way he had often imagined he would spend 
 the day of his return ; still, he had no regrets beyond the 
 physical discomfort. The last human tie that had held 
 him to a sense of responsibility was broken. 
 
 He found his quarters at The Rembrandt Studios much 
 as he had left them. He was surprised, however, that the 
 idea of picking up his life again among these surround 
 ings had no attraction for him. It would not be the 
 same without Springer down the hall. He made up his 
 mind to move, and, with the decision he immediately be 
 came possessed with the determination to acquire at once 
 what he had coveted so long an establishment of tapes 
 tries and tall candlesticks, such as he had glimpsed 
 
THE AMATEUR 253 
 
 through a studio s open door the day he had called on 
 [ohn Seymore Jarvis. 
 
 Carey was making a great deal of money. It came in 
 Faster than he could keep track of it. Payments for the 
 earlier work he had done had been deferred, some of 
 :hem for six months after delivery. These now began 
 to be realised. He was pleasantly surprised, upon look- 
 ng up the amount of his deposits, to find he had a credit 
 over fifteen thousand dollars. The bonds left by his 
 father had recently been turned over to him by the execu 
 tors, and these, with what he expected to realise from the 
 sale of his mother s small realty holdings, brought his 
 worldly possessions gratifyingly near fifty thousand dol- 
 ars. 
 
 "Not so bad for a chap not yet twenty-six," reflected 
 !arey, gazing with approval at himself in his glass. 
 
 The quest for the new studio provided a great deal 
 of pleasure for both Carey and Springer. They spent 
 the better part of the following days together, inspecting 
 Dossibilities in different sections of the city. They dis 
 agreed, even quarrelled, because both were so much in 
 terested in the project. They regretted keenly that it 
 was not possible to share the same quarters ; but to desert 
 Harrison would be neither honourable nor friendly. 
 Springer claimed it was just as well that living together 
 was not feasible, as he and Carey would differ about so 
 many things, that their opinions, constantly opposed, 
 night have impaired their friendship. Besides, it would 
 be impossible for Springer to live on the lavish scale 
 arey contemplated. 
 
 "I can t see what you want with a studio de luxe, with 
 mahogany finish and nickel-plated fittings," Springer 
 said in disgust. "It isn t the money. Damn the money! 
 
254 THE AMATEUR 
 
 If I had half of Rockefeller s millions, I d root round 
 till I found some dilapidated old stable, rip the insides out 
 of it and remodel it to suit my taste. That would be 
 some sport ! It would have distinction to it ! What you 
 see in that Fifty-ninth Street peer s palace taxes my im 
 agination. I ll bet ten dollars there isn t a real artist 
 who makes his living by his work in that whole building. 
 You ll find would-bes there, they fill three hundred 
 such dumps in New York. They play at being artists. 
 They are brokers and drab business men mostly, who 
 have temperamental wives. I abominate such people!" 
 
 Carey found Springer was right. He consoled him 
 self with the thought that he did not have to associate 
 with them. They were the aliens in such quarters and 
 not he. The studio was a duplex apartment, consisting 
 of two bed rooms, a kitchen, bath, and the studio itself. 
 It was the room in which he should work, that fascinated 
 Carey. It was of magnificent proportions, particularly 
 in height, and had a gallery running around three sides 
 on which the bed rooms above opened. The beamed 
 ceiling was nearly twenty-five feet from the floor. The 
 finish was old English, and opposite the immense prismed 
 windows that flung light into the furthest corners, was 
 a noble fireplace of carved white stone, large enough to 
 contain a pair of tall, brass fire-dogs, beautifully wrought. 
 The windows allowed a view of the Park only when they 
 were open, but the prospect from the bed rooms above 
 was unrestricted. On the morning Carey and Springer 
 visited this studio, a heavy, clinging snow had fallen 
 during the night, the first of the year, and every twig on 
 every tree was encrusted with a white casing of crystal 
 sugar. The sight from the upper windows was of en 
 trancing beauty. The sun struck a dazzling multitude of 
 twinkling sparks from every finger in a forest of white- 
 
THE AMATEUR 255 
 
 gloved hands that stretched heavenward. It was this 
 sight that decided Carey. The establishment was much 
 larger than he needed, the rent was exorbitant, he was 
 obliged to keep a servant, and it would cost him three or 
 four thousand dollars to furnish. But he was deaf to 
 these arguments advanced by Springer. He knew he 
 was wrong and his friend was right ; he admitted it. That 
 did not alter his decision. He caught Springer regard 
 ing him with a puzzled, distrustful look. It angered him 
 for the moment and hardened his determination. 
 
 Once it was irrevocably decided, Springer s good 
 humour returned, and an agreeable harmony prevailed 
 between them with regard to the furnishing. In due 
 time the paper was ripped off the walls, which were re- 
 plastered and distempered a warm, golden brown. Oak 
 shelves were built for the books and music, and Carey 
 even rented a grand piano, for, although he could not use 
 it himself, he had derived a certain companionable satis 
 faction from the instrument he had hired for Cecilia, and, 
 besides, the presence of a grand piano gave the studio a 
 certain dignity. He bought a Turkish rug, that nearly 
 covered the studio floor, and three fine tapestries, four 
 items which cost him over two thousand dollars. Tall 
 gilt candlesticks supporting cathedral candles as thick 
 as his arm, some heavily upholstered chairs, a great 
 oak table with massive legs, hangings of grey-green 
 monk s cloth, some vivid Chinese embroideries to drape 
 the balustrade of the gallery, an immense painter s easel 
 and model throne, whose presence could only be justified 
 by the workmanlike effect they produced, successively 
 were acquired and found their way into the studio. Carey 
 thought that it would be an amusing idea that, because 
 he was an artist, the studio should be devoid of pictures. 
 
256 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Springer ridiculed this as affectation. They compromised 
 on a few large, well-chosen Japanese prints. 
 
 "It s all too commonplace, Carey," Springer said, sur 
 veying the room critically, when it was nearly finished. 
 "Your bed room, with its yellow walls and cerise hang 
 ings is infinitely more effective. All this is like what the 
 brokers and the business men downstairs and upstairs 
 think an artist s studio should be. It s the way they fit 
 up their apartments. You couldn t do any real work 
 here if you had to." 
 
 "I think you are somewhat late with your criticism," 
 said Carey, resentfully. 
 
 "Well, you ve no business in this kind of a dude s 
 studio, and I said so from the very first." 
 
 "And what do you mean by real work?" pursued 
 Carey, seeking offence in the other s words. 
 
 "Oh, the devil !" Springer exclaimed in disgust. "You 
 know it takes you less than an hour to do one of your 
 heads. You ve told me so repeatedly. If it took you a 
 couple of days and you had to turn it out by the sweat 
 of your soul, that would be hard work." 
 
 "I guess I know how hard I work," grumbled Carey. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know all about that," Springer answered 
 with spirit. "But look here, Carey, I ve got something on 
 my chest that I might as well get off now as any other 
 time. Are you always going to keep on with this pretty- 
 head stuff ? Aren t you going to try something else some 
 time? I m not the kind of a friend that hears you criti 
 cised around and never tells you about it for fear of 
 hurting your feelings. I m only telling you what the fel 
 lows I know are saying." 
 
 "What fellows?" Carey demanded. 
 
 "The artists. You know em as well as I do. No 
 body s going to take you seriously as a conscientious 
 
THE AMATEUR 257 
 
 workman as long as you continue to turn out combina 
 tions of this strawboard stunt of yours." 
 
 "They re jealous, that s the trouble with them," Carey 
 retorted, after an uncomfortable silence. 
 
 Springer smiled. 
 
 "Not all of them. Some of em like you personally 
 and would rather see you do something worth while than 
 those damn heads. You ve invented a stunt. You know 
 it isn t Art as well as I do. Now that you ve returned to 
 New York, why don t you attempt some real illustrating? 
 I know you too well to believe you re satisfied to con 
 tinue to do this kind of work all the rest of your life. 
 Just because the fool public likes em doesn t make em 
 Art." 
 
 "I believe in Art for Life s sake, not in Art for Art s 
 sake." Carey had heard some one say this, and he 
 thought it an effective argument just now. 
 
 "I don t exactly know what you mean by that," his 
 friend replied. "You think over what I say; sometime 
 you ll be sorry you didn t try your hand at something 
 else." 
 
 Dissatisfied as he might be with Springer s lack of en 
 thusiasm about his work and his new abode, Carey him 
 self was delighted with his studio. He had realised the 
 dream that had been his since he arrived in New York. 
 It was even greater fun than he had anticipated. If it 
 had cost him nearly twice as much as he expected, he was 
 consoled by the constant and persistent demand for his 
 work. He put a fixed price of three hundred and fifty 
 dollars upon each of his pretty girl heads, and did two, 
 sometimes three, a week. Grumblingly the magazines 
 paid his prices, but they paid them and sent him orders 
 for more. Even Overman s was compelled by its sub 
 scribers to yield to the demand for Carey Williams work. 
 
258 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Carey retained his studio in the Rembrandt building 
 until January first. There he slept and worked while his 
 Fifty-ninth Street apartment was being put into shape. 
 Christmas caught him busy with the details of furnishing 
 the kitchen, his own and servant s rooms, and providing 
 the necessary china, glassware and napery. There was 
 no dining room; his ordinary meals and the charming 
 little dinners he intended giving were to be served in 
 the studio. Carey expected this would be a delightful 
 feature, and he arranged to have some round wooden 
 tops made to fit over his long, massive oak table, and 
 thus be able to seat comfortably six or eight, or even 
 more, of his friends. 
 
 Also, he spent considerable time and money upon his 
 wardrobe. As soon as he had returned, he had given 
 an order to a Fifth Avenue tailor for several suits of 
 clothes; his silk shirts, beautifully monogramed, were 
 made to his measure by another firm on the Avenue; 
 his shoes, with cloth tops and small, fancy buttons, cost 
 fifteen dollars a pair. He laid in a supply of socks and 
 cravats, and even silk underwear on the same lavish scale. 
 His fur overcoat, lined with matched skins, represented 
 an investment of five hundred dollars. 
 
 Christmas Eve, Carey and Springer dined together at 
 Rector s. They ordered their dinner carefully, and 
 Carey insisted on champagne. The restaurant was filled 
 with extravagantly-dressed women in decollete gowns, 
 their powdered white throats and shoulders alternating 
 with the stiff, immaculate shirt fronts of their escorts. 
 There was a note of gaiety in the mingling of the sub 
 dued voices, the clink of glasses, the rattle of silverware, 
 the strains of the string orchestra at the further end of 
 the rooms. Carey was reminded of the Sunday morn 
 ing they had breakfasted at the Casino in the Park, 
 
THE AMATEUR 259 
 
 the morning he had met Myra. He had been so en 
 grossed with his new studio since his return that he had 
 only given the girl an occasional thought. He wanted to 
 meet her again; it was a pleasure he decided to defer 
 until he was settled. Springer had told him what he knew 
 of her the day Carey arrived in New York. She had seen 
 him taking tea with Violet Burns and Cecilia one Satur 
 day afternoon in the Palm Room at the Waldorf, and the 
 next time he met her she had presumed to take a "high 
 and mighty" tone, demanding to know who his friends 
 were and what he meant by making love to another girl 
 before her very eyes. Springer had lifted his hat, turned 
 on his heel, and left her without another word. He was 
 indignant that she should have dared to question him. 
 Since then she had bombarded him with letters, telephone 
 messages and presents. The first and last, never opened, 
 he allowed to accumulate until a sufficient number war 
 ranted their return by messenger. The telephones he 
 always cut short by hanging up the receiver. She had 
 presumably decided to leave him alone, now, for he had 
 had no word from her since Carey s return. There had 
 been a row about the same time between her and Cunnie 
 Bates, and she had gone back to the stage. 
 
 "It s where she belongs," said Springer, sourly. "She 
 knew she had no business even to bow to me when I 
 was with decent women." 
 
 "And how about the love making?" Carey asked, mis 
 chievously. 
 
 Springer dismissed the question with a curt, "Damn 
 nonsense!" But Carey began to suspect, from frequent 
 unaccounted for and unexpected "engagements," that 
 Springer was spending a number of his evenings at the 
 Hotel Grenoble. He knew his friend would confide in 
 him if there was ever any need for confidence; but he 
 
260 THE AMATEUR 
 
 was not the marrying kind, and the affair, if one existed, 
 was probably a mild flirtation, the innocuousness of 
 which he was ashamed to admit. 
 
 It was partly the sensuous appeal of the atmosphere 
 about them, partly the warming effect of the wine, that 
 made Carey suddenly want to see Myra. She was in the 
 chorus at the Casino, and although Springer had no fur 
 ther interest in her, and had not been to the Casino since 
 the operetta in which she was appearing had opened, he 
 might be persuaded to go. It was five minutes past eight 
 and Christmas Eve. Still there was just a chance they 
 might be able to get seats. Springer s answer to the sug 
 gestion was a grimace that eloquently expressed how little 
 the idea appealed to him, but Carey was both pleading 
 and insistent. 
 
 "If you can get seats this time of night, * Springer 
 compromised, "I ll go." 
 
 With a precipitation that attracted some attention, 
 Carey left the restaurant. It was almost the half hour 
 when he returned triumphantly, exhibiting two bits of 
 pasteboard. 
 
 "They cost me ten dollars," he panted. 
 
 "You re going crazy," Springer returned good-hu- 
 mouredly. 
 
 They hurried into their hats and coats and caught a 
 taxi in front of the restaurant. 
 
 It was only a few minutes after the curtain s rise when 
 they reached their seats. Carey recognised Myra as he 
 came down the aisle. She was second in a line of Dutch 
 girls wearing white-winged caps and wooden shoes. 
 They were singing the refrain to the ingenue s song. For 
 the rest of the evening, while she was on the stage, his 
 eyes never left her; he followed her movements, her en- 
 
THE AMATEUR 261 
 
 trances and exits, her changes of costume, with a fixed 
 intentness that amused his companion. 
 
 "She certainly has got you on the run," Springer said 
 banteringly. 
 
 Carey straightened himself, easing his constrained po 
 sition, taking a long breath. 
 
 "My God, Springer," he said, his voice betraying his 
 emotion, "how does a man like Cunningham Bates what 
 does he what kind of a proposition does he make to a 
 girl like that?" 
 
 Springer drew away from him in surprised disap 
 proval. 
 
 "Don t be an utter fool, Carey ! I said you were going 
 crazy, you are crazy I Why, Lord alive, man, there are 
 too many suckers like Cunnie Bates flying round loose in 
 this city for you to join the flock. A girl like Myra 
 Rossiter will milk you of every little red penny you ve 
 got, if you re fool enough to mention money to her. 
 Don t be an ass, Carey ! I begin to think you are getting 
 the big head, with your success and the easy money you 
 make." 
 
 After this, Carey decided to keep his plans to himself. 
 Some curious, unaccountable change grew noticeable in 
 his friend. After the theatre, Springer had always 
 wanted to make the rounds of the dance halls where, on 
 such nights as Christmas Eve, all the habitues of the re 
 sorts were out in force, and where his advent always 
 created a noticeable ripple of interest. 
 
 "Oh, here comes Fleming Springer!" 
 
 "Here s Fleming Springer!" 
 
 "It s Fleming Springer!" 
 
 Overheard, as he followed Springer to a vacant table, 
 Carey took delight in these evidences of his friend s pop 
 ularity. He enjoyed being seen with him. He, himself, 
 
262 THE AMATEUR 
 
 was becoming known, and now that his fame as an artist 
 was rapidly spreading, he felt sure that such remarks, 
 announcing Springer s entrance, were followed by: 
 
 "And that s his friend, Carey Williams; you know 
 Carey Williams the fellow that draws all the magazine 
 covers now days!" 
 
 But to-night, Springer was either for going home or 
 eating a mild supper at the Cafe Martin. Carey, dis 
 appointed, agreed to the supper, feeling that something 
 was altogether wrong with Springer; but the concession 
 of his having gone to the Casino was all that he could rea 
 sonably expect. 
 
 It was after they had eaten their grilled oysters and 
 were finishing their second stein of beer that Carey 
 caught sight of a well-known face at another table. It 
 drew from him a glad, spontaneous cry: 
 
 "Jerry!" 
 
 The other had seen him, too, and Carey s name had 
 sprung as readily to his lips. Together they rose and met 
 half way, each eagerly seeking the other s hand, a smile 
 of happy recognition on both faces. 
 
 "Why, you old terrapin!" Jerry exclaimed, wringing 
 Carey s hand. "Who would have known you in such 
 fancy trappings! You ve become a sporty princeling! 
 You look like a matinee idol ! But you re the great Carey 
 Williams now, I forgot!" 
 
 "You re the same old Jerry Hart!" 
 
 Both were laughing excitedly. If there had been any 
 constraint in Jerry s manner at the very first, it was 
 not noticeable after their hands met. Carey s cordial 
 greeting left no room for any doubt that he had forgotten 
 whatever resentment he might have cherished. Carey 
 dismissed his grievance against Jerry as he might have 
 tossed away the ashes from a cigarette. 
 
THE AMATEUR 263 
 
 "Can t you come over and join us? Who re y with?" 
 
 "Those friends of mine from Murray Hill. They ll be 
 beating it soon. Wait for me ; I ll be with you as soon as 
 they go !" 
 
 Carey returned to his table, still smiling with pleasure 
 over the encounter, eager to tell Springer about Jerry. 
 But Springer interrupted him as soon as he began. 
 
 "You ve told me all about this fellow before, Carey. 
 Isn t he the man who ruined the little girl at your board 
 ing house and then cut loose?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, you ll have to excuse me from meeting that 
 kind of a rotter. God knows, I ve pretty elastic morals 
 and I ve been entirely too promiscuous. But that s 
 where I draw the line, Carey. I never seduced a girl in 
 my life, and I won t shake hands with a man who has. 
 You and your friend can go and raise all the hell you 
 want to to-night, but you can leave me out." 
 
 He rose as he finished and jerked his head at their 
 waiter, who came hurrying up with the check. 
 
 Carey regarded him, surprised and hurt. 
 
 "It s hard for me to bear a grudge against any one like 
 that, Springer. I m not vindictive," he offered lamely. 
 
 Springer gave the waiter a bill, and paused a moment, 
 his hand on a chair back. 
 
 "It isn t a question of a grudge," he said. "I wouldn t 
 associate with a leper, and I won t mix with a man who 
 I know is worse than a leper inside. I m surprised, after 
 what you have told me you went through on account of 
 this person, that you now are willing to take up with him 
 as if nothing had happened. I m damned surprised. 
 I m beginning to think I ve been mistaken in you alto 
 gether." 
 
 He left without further words, and Carey saw him 
 
264 THE AMATEUR 
 
 presently in the foyer, struggling into his overcoat that 
 the hat-boy held for him. Carey sat sullenly making a 
 paste of his cigar ashes and some beer drippings that had 
 fallen into his plate from the bottom of his stein. He 
 was regarding the mess, absently stirring it with the end 
 of a match, telling himself that Springer was no longer 
 the happy, free, pleasure-loving friend he had once so 
 enjoyed following about, when Jerry came behind him, 
 clapped him affectionately on the shoulder and slid into 
 Springer s vacant chair. 
 
 At once was forgotten Carey s wavering resolve to tell 
 him frankly that he had responded to an impulse to be 
 friendly when he first had seen him, but the recollection 
 of certain unhappy incidents made it impossible for them 
 to resume their old relationship. He beckoned to the 
 waiter and gave the order for what they wished to drink, 
 then called him back and substituted champagne. De 
 liberately he shut his eyes to what he was doing. He 
 knew only that he liked Jerry and that life was too 
 short to treasure resentment. He refused to think about 
 Anna, and her part in their reminiscences was carefully 
 avoided. 
 
 It was a long night, with the relationship of the two 
 one-time friends reversed. It was Carey who drove 
 about in a hired automobile, showing Jerry new dance- 
 halls, strange and lurid resorts, that evoked the other s 
 surprise and wonder. In some of these it was gratify 
 ing to be recognised by the head waiter or floor manager, 
 if only as Fleming Springer s friend. Once he thought 
 he heard a girl whisper his name to her companion. 
 Some wild excitement possessed him after that. He 
 turned to the girl who had joined him at their table, his 
 eyes roving wildly. 
 
 "Let s tear the lid off to-night! What do you say?" 
 
THE AMATEUR 265 
 
 Thereafter, wherever they went, Carey ordered a quart 
 of wine, which was never finished ; they left for another 
 dance-hall before the bottle was half empty. 
 
 It was an orgy, a night of mad revel. Various in 
 cidents that happened during it, came back humiliatingly 
 to Carey s sick and troubled mind the following morning. 
 He dimly remembered insisting that the crowd of them, 
 the car was full of pick-ups of the night, should ac 
 company him to the Grand Central Station. He was in 
 tent on showing them at the news stand the row of six 
 magazines whose covers he had drawn, never doubting 
 that the arrangement had been preserved since the day 
 of his arrival. There had also been a narrow escape 
 from arrest when he was roughly prevented from con 
 tinuing a rain of blows upon the padlocked door of a 
 dimly lit florist shop. He had wanted to leave an order 
 for an impressive floral piece to be sent to Myra. Jerry 
 lay asleep in the tonneau of the car, insensible to every 
 thing. The chauffeur who had driven them about through 
 the night a kindly, pleasant- faced chap interceded and 
 offered to take Carey home. Vaguely, part of their con 
 versation came back to him : the deep, reprimanding voice 
 of the policeman and the deprecatory tone of the chauf 
 feur and his oft-repeated phrase : 
 
 "He s only a kid he s only a kid." 
 
 But what stung his smarting conscience like a whip-lash 
 was the recollection of himself standing up in the auto 
 mobile, as it sped along Broadway early in the evening, 
 shouting out his own name to the staring faces of the 
 pedestrians on the sidewalks : 
 
 "You know who I am ? I m Carey Williams ; I m the 
 artist, Carey Williams!" 
 
 When he awoke, he found himself in his own quar 
 ters at The Rembrandt Studios, lying upon the couch 
 
266 THE AMATEUR 
 
 where he had been flung by whomever had carried him 
 in. With the exception of his coat and vest, collar and 
 tie, he was still dressed. These lay on the floor, in the 
 middle of the room. The neckband of his shirt, still 
 buttoned, was choking him painfully. He could feel the 
 congested blood pounding in his head. With difficulty 
 he wrenched his shirt open and lifted himself upon one 
 elbow. The room swam round and round him, until he 
 was compelled to shut his eyes. Never had he experi 
 enced such fierce physical agony after a night s debauch. 
 He sank shuddering back upon the couch. 
 
 Outside, the church bells were cheerily ringing their 
 summons to Christmas service. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 FIFTY thousand calendars by Carey Williams were 
 sold in New York City before the first of the year ; 
 nearly that many were sold elsewhere. Carey s royalties 
 came in a cheque from the publishing house for twenty- 
 three thousand dollars. 
 
 The afternoon of the day it arrived, he bought a five- 
 thousand-dollar motor car, a new model built on the most 
 rakish lines. It was in this, ten days later, he drove 
 Myra to Atlantic City, where they remained for what 
 seemed to Carey ten days of luxuriant irresponsibility 
 and lazy pleasure. If, after the first forty-eight hours, a 
 disquieting doubt arose in his heart that, perhaps, he had 
 been a little precipitate and that the arrangement lacked 
 the romance he expected, he stifled the feeling as one 
 of which he ought to be ashamed. He was troubled also 
 by the coarseness of the girl s mind. Not that she was 
 coarse in either speech or manner ; it was rather the lack 
 of cleanness and fineness in her he felt. He refused, 
 however, to let these things worry him seriously. 
 
 Upon their arrival, he was far more concerned by self- 
 consciousness, and the fear that people on the Board 
 Walk, on the verandas, and in the lobby of their hotel at 
 once recognised their illicit relationship. He suspected 
 that it was palpable to every one. Myra gave him the 
 benefit of her silvery laugh when he confessed this to her. 
 
 267 
 
268 THE AMATEUR 
 
 What observers thought had no terrors for her; their 
 stares were incense to her. It was surprising how soon 
 Carey himself grew used to it. Myra s beauty was more 
 sumptuous than ever, and in the marvellous array of new 
 frocks, coats and hats of which she had laid in a large 
 supply before they left New York, she drew the admira 
 tion of every one. It required five trunks and as many 
 hat trunks to contain her wardrobe for the brief visit to 
 the seashore. Carey had paid Madam Osborne s bill, the 
 Louise and the Maison de Blanc accounts cheerfully. If 
 they had been twice their size, he would have paid them 
 with as little thought. He wasn t sure of what he did 
 these days. He felt giddy the greater part of the time. 
 
 If there were a sophisticated few who understood the 
 situation, the majority saw in them only a bride and 
 groom. It was their extreme youth that lent colour to this 
 supposition. Outside of Myra s loveliness, the attention 
 they attracted was only that of such idle curiosity as all 
 brides and grooms awake. To the other guests in the 
 hotel, Carey was a millionaire s son with his young wife, 
 his transparent embarrassment, so obviously due to his 
 new wedded happiness, an attractive and charming 
 quality. Myra s ultra- fashionableness raised some doubts 
 in the minds of a few of the older women, but she 
 dressed in such perfect taste and preserved so disarming a 
 demureness that these doubts were no more than passing. 
 
 On their way back to New York, they motored first to 
 Philadelphia, and spent three days at the Bellevue-Strat- 
 ford. 
 
 It was not until his return that Carey learned of 
 Springer s marriage. Knowing how his friend would 
 have ridiculed him if he had confided his plans to him, 
 he had said nothing about his intentions regarding Myra, 
 
THE AMATEUR 269 
 
 nor had he told him that he was going to be out of town 
 for a fortnight. His mail had accumulated during his 
 absence to a surprising quantity. The Japanese, Naka, 
 who was cook, butler and valet, had arranged it in 
 neat piles upon the massive oak table in the studio. On 
 top lay the three yellow envelopes containing Springer s 
 telegrams. The first read : 
 
 "Where are you? I must see you at once." 
 
 The second was equally imperative: 
 
 "Call me up at my studio at once." 
 
 It was the third that affected Carey as a body blow. 
 He sank into one of the deep upholstered chairs and 
 stared at it blankly, occasionally drawing long breaths 
 and rubbing his eyes vigorously, as if his eyesight were 
 defective. He still wore his great fur coat, and his 
 gauntlets lay in his lap. The Japanese moved silently 
 about, drawing the silk runners across the high-prismed 
 windows, switching on the lights that lit the studio from 
 the sides beneath the gallery, applying a match to the 
 log fire already laid. 
 
 "Cecilia!" He kept repeating the name softly. Then, 
 aloud, he said, speaking unconsciously : "Well, why the 
 devil didn t he tell me!" 
 
 He felt that Springer had deceived him, that he had 
 been hoodwinked. At the thought of his friend s defec 
 tion so it appeared to him he experienced a curious 
 sense of weakness; it was as if a prop had been knocked 
 from under him. He glanced upward at the high roof of 
 the studio and about its tapestried walls; swift thoughts 
 of his new car and Myra passed through his mind. He 
 felt abandoned, duped. Springer s action was treacher 
 ous. Where would he have found the courage, he asked, 
 illogically, to have let himself in for "all this" if it hadn t 
 been for Springer? He began to feel afraid. 
 
270 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Provoked and angry, he called up the Tenth Street stu 
 dio. It was Mark Harrison who answered the telephone. 
 A quick interchange of questions, answers and exclama 
 tions followed. 
 
 "I was equally surprised, Carey," Harrison said. "I 
 knew he had some girl on the string by the way he acted. 
 It was the fact that he didn t babble about her that made 
 me think once or twice he meant business. He drove 
 up here in a taxi last Tuesday ; walked into the room as 
 if he hadn t a thing on his mind. Mark, he says, I m 
 going to get married this afternoon ; I d like you to come 
 along! You can imagine how I felt. I looked at him 
 kind of blankly; I couldn t think what to say. It made 
 him sore. Damn, he says, haven t I got a friend in 
 this city to wish me luck? I came to life then and said 
 something that made him laugh. As soon as I had scram 
 bled into my duds he had to wait till I shaved I went 
 down with him to the taxi, and there sat the girl in the 
 corner. Miss Shaughnessy, he says, this is my friend 
 Mark Harrison! How do you do, I says, and we all 
 got into the taxi. Both of them were rather excited, as 
 you may imagine, but old Fleming was as glum as an 
 oyster. Isn t this kind of sudden? I asked after a while. 
 Yes, he says, but it had to be that way, and that s 
 what I like about it, don t you, dear ? he says, turning to 
 the girl. At that she begins to cry, and I sat there, feel 
 ing like a fool, looking out of the window all the rest of 
 the way. 
 
 "We stopped at a priest s house back of that Catholic 
 church up there on West Thirty-sixth Street, and all of 
 us got out and went in. There s another girl and her lit 
 tle sister waiting for us. Her name was Burns, and, be 
 fore we had a chance to say more than How do you do 
 to each other, the priest comes in and they re married in 
 
THE AMATEUR 271 
 
 less time than you could spin a quarter. Fleming kisses 
 the girl spank on the mouth and calls her wife/ and I 
 sign something and the damn thing s done, sealed and 
 delivered. Flem says to me, Til see you as soon as we 
 get back ; and I m good for my share of the studio s rent. 
 Damn the studio s rent/ I says, where s Carey? I 
 wish to God I knew/ he says; and then he and his wife 
 go down the stairs and get into the taxi and off they go. 
 
 "Miss Burns and I were standing on the stoop. She 
 was mopping her eyes, and I ventured my same question 
 again : Kind of sudden, wasn t it ? Yes/ says she, her 
 aunt died. 
 
 "And that s all I know, Carey. I never saw any one 
 so crazy about a girl in my life! And I could have bet 
 a fortune that he d never be satisfied with any one girl 
 enough to make her Mrs. Springer." 
 
 As Carey hung up the telephone, it occurred to him to 
 wonder at the singular twist of the wheel of fortune by 
 which Cecilia had become Springer s wife, and Myra his 
 mistress. Springer had the best of the exchange. He 
 was heartily glad that this was so. His loyalty and af 
 fection for Springer had not abated, and nothing was 
 too good for his friend. Cecilia would make him a per 
 fect wife, but he wondered about Springer s constancy. 
 
 Carey already felt a certain disillusionment with 
 Myra. He had imagined that the compact between them 
 would provide him with a companion as well as a mis 
 tress, but Myra was a creature of profound selfishness. 
 She would consent to do only what appealed to her as 
 agreeable. She had no consideration for Carey s wishes. 
 Outside her love for Springer, her sole interests in life 
 were her clothes and the preservation of her beauty. She 
 was an orchid, a hybrid species, parasitic in mind and 
 heart. Carey had hoped to establish a friendship between 
 
272 THE AMATEUR 
 
 them. Myra disgusted him by regarding their relation 
 as purely one of business. It was her manner of exist 
 ence ; she possessed no other code. As much as her na 
 ture was capable, she loved Springer sincerely and pas 
 sionately. Knowing that Carey understood this, she 
 made for him no pretence of affection. He was hurt and 
 jealous; but his jealousy was impersonal. Somehow, it 
 never occurred to him to lay this at Springer s door. 
 
 He feared also that Myra held him rather in con 
 tempt, regarding him as what he knew he was : a "good 
 thing," a kid with a "bunch of money." But, as with 
 many other things these days, he shut his eyes to it. She 
 was lovely, and her beauty made up for a thousand 
 shortcomings. Besides, he was proud of her, proud to 
 be seen with her, proud of the fact that he was keeping 
 a mistress. 
 
 He established her in a beautifully appointed apart 
 ment belonging to an actress a friend of Myra s who 
 was playing a forty weeks engagement on the Orpheum 
 circuit in the west. It was situated on upper Broadway, 
 near the Ansonia Hotel, and proved a dainty setting for 
 Myra s exotic beauty. There were inlaid floors and glass- 
 folding doors, rugs and soft brocade hangings. A colour 
 scheme of old rose predominated, relieved here and there 
 by Watteau figures in china, on panelled screens, in old 
 seventeenth century prints. But the charm of visiting her 
 here was always spoilt by an invariable encounter with 
 Myra s women friends, even when he had announced by 
 telephone his intention of coming out to see her. He met 
 them on the steps, in the halls, comfortably established 
 on the satin-covered settees and spindle-legged chairs of 
 the tiny reception room, even in Myra s boudoir. They 
 greeted him, he thought, with mock politeness. He fan 
 cied, when he heard their laughter and Myra s silvery ac- 
 
THE AMATEUR 273 
 
 companiment, that he was always the subject of their 
 mirth. He was constantly finding occasion to reassure 
 himself that he was fanciful, distrustful. He was too 
 conscious of his youth, he told himself, and there was 
 never any concrete evidence of the truth of his suspicions. 
 More comfort and satisfaction came to him in driving 
 his new high-powered motor car. Myra insisted upon be 
 ing properly dressed and heavily veiled, or otherwise she 
 firmly declined to accompany him. Even when she con 
 sented, she refused to allow him to go fast. Nothing 
 thrilled Carey s senses more than, when he reached a bit 
 of straight road, to "let her out." He meant to establish 
 a record that no machine had ever passed him. As a fox 
 stalks a wild bird in the forest, he would mark some 
 car far ahead of him as his prey and bear down upon 
 it, keeping just ahead after he had passed it, for a few 
 minutes, to give its occupants the full benefit of his dust 
 and smoke. He preferred to have Mark Harrison ac 
 company him, rather than Myra, and one night he dis 
 covered where McNeil and French modestly kept house 
 on East Twelfth Street, and drove them over the Brook 
 lyn Bridge to Coney Island and back. 
 
 One day, when he was on the way to get his car from 
 the repair shop, he met Gregory Shilling on the street. 
 The other did not remember him at first. Carey was 
 much changed from the fledgling with awkward, boyish 
 manners who had impulsively called on him nearly two 
 years ago. As soon as Shilling identified him, he was 
 effusively cordial, recalled Carey s visit perfectly, even 
 remembered his name, and confessed he had watched his 
 rise with enthusiastic interest. He told Carey he had re 
 lated the story of his call upon him a score of times. He 
 was delighted that Carey had taken the trouble to stop 
 
274 THE AMATEUR 
 
 him on the street and speak to him. He never would 
 have recognised him. 
 
 The result of this chance encounter was an invitation 
 from Shilling to be his guest at the Society of Illustra 
 tors annual smoker at the Berkeley Lyceum; Shilling 
 wanted him to dine with him beforehand ; he was giving 
 a dinner to a couple of cousins from Chicago. Carey 
 was immensely gratified by his friendliness, and bought a 
 new suit for the occasion. He determined to return the 
 hospitality in a lavish manner. 
 
 Shilling entertained them at a restaurant called The 
 Alps, an attractive, unpretentious place in the vicinity 
 of his studio. Besides the cousins, two drab little fel 
 lows, well fitted to the name of Grey, the host had invited 
 Merrivale, the Art Editor of the fashion magazine, So 
 ciety, and Castle Jerome, another artist, at the top of his 
 profession, whose work Carey had long admired. He 
 was a man about fifty, very bald, with many gold teeth 
 in his head. Two lower incisors in either side of his 
 jaw, plated solidly with gold, gave the effect of a tiger s 
 fangs. He was an admirable story-teller, and kept them 
 all laughing ; the dinner was a great success. They were 
 still in a hilarious mood when, about a quarter to nine, 
 they reached the Berkeley Lyceum. The theatre was al 
 ready crowded, a thick haze of tobacco smoke rising 
 above the heads of the audience composed entirely of 
 men. As nothing was reserved, they found seats with 
 difficulty, the party separating, Gregory Shilling piloting 
 the two drab little cousins down a side aisle. Carey sat 
 with Castle Jerome and Merrivale. 
 
 Everybody seemed to know everybody else. There 
 were continued staccato greetings fired back and forth 
 in the theatre, like tennis balls over a net. 
 
 "Oh you Allan!" 
 
THE AMATEUR 275 
 
 "Hello there, Terry!" 
 
 "Har ree! Oh Harree Grant!" 
 
 Carey was eager to have Merrivale point out the ce 
 lebrities among the illustrators who were present. He was 
 conscious others near him were looking at him and whis 
 pering his name. He saw Ben Mercy and Sherman, old 
 Blake of the Occident, the detested Art Editor of Over 
 man s, and a number of others to whom he was able to 
 bow. Sitting next to him was a small person with a funny 
 little putty nose and bushy eyebrows. He was evidently 
 well-known and popular among his fellow-craftsmen. 
 Presently Castle Jerome leaned across Carey to speak to 
 him, and he made the pleasing discovery that his neigh 
 bour was Mason Edward Camp. Jerome, introducing him, 
 mentioned him only as Mr. Williams. No one would ever 
 identify him by his surname alone, thought Carey. He 
 was a trifle chagrined at Jerome s indifference; he was 
 sure that there wasn t a man in the theatre who was not 
 jealous of his success and who would not be interested 
 in knowing that the slight, blond fellow down there in 
 the tenth row was the one who had the whole of New 
 York City by the ears. He was composing a sentence by 
 which he could tactfully apprise Mr. Camp of the fact 
 that the Mr. Williams next to whom he was sitting was 
 none other than Carey Williams, when a general shuffling 
 of feet drew attention to a pompous, white-haired, fat lit 
 tle man with a white walrus moustache entering one of 
 the stage boxes with a party of friends. 
 
 "That s Harry Lamberton Lewis/ whispered Merri 
 vale. "He takes himself pretty seriously, and the fellows 
 are always quietly joshing him/ 
 
 There prevailed an atmosphere of sustained excite 
 ment in the theatre. Long ago the last seat had been oc 
 cupied and late-comers crowded the wide passage-way 
 
276 THE AMATEUR 
 
 back of the tiers of seats. Their faces banked the space 
 beneath the brass rods that supported the short, plush cur 
 tains, now tightly pushed back, above the last line of 
 orchestra chairs. There was a continual coming and go 
 ing, men passing up and down the aisles, worming their 
 way to and from their seats, squeezing past the row of 
 intervening knees with laughing apologies. Part of the 
 audience began to stamp impatiently ; a number down in 
 front commenced a song, immediately to be interrupted 
 by cat-calls and howls from other parts of the house. 
 
 Suddenly there was a storm of vehement applause, a 
 thundering acclamation from every pair of hands in the 
 theatre. 
 
 "It s Charles Hanna Simpson," whispered Merrivale 
 in Carey s ear. "They all love him; everybody does! 
 Isn t he magnificent?" 
 
 A large, powerfully built man, with grizzled hair and 
 moustache and a sharp, hawk-like face, stood at the rail 
 ing of a stage box, acknowledging the welcome with a 
 ceremonious bow. Carey leaned forward eagerly for an 
 unobstructed view. He was deeply interested. Charles 
 Hanna Simpson had been in the front rank of the best 
 American illustrators for nearly twenty years. He pos 
 sessed an international reputation, both as a painter and 
 illustrator. Carey was impressed by his commanding 
 bearing and the aloof dignity of the man. 
 
 There was another burst of hand-clapping. The leader 
 of the orchestra, a member of the Society, stood up, 
 glancing right and left at the upturned faces beneath him. 
 He rapped smartly upon the rack in front of him with 
 his baton, swung his extended arms together and led the 
 little orchestra into the opening bars of the weird, ori 
 ental music he had composed for the occasion. 
 
 The performance consisted of two offerings, both writ- 
 
THE AMATEUR 277 
 
 ten by members of the Society and acted by them. Some 
 professional girl models, excessively pretty and clever, 
 took the female roles. Carey wondered at their assur 
 ance and their indifference to the character of the audi 
 ence. Both plays were broad, the first one amazingly 
 clever, the second uproariously funny. Amused smiles 
 were still on the faces of the audience as, in compact col 
 umns, it choked the narrow aisles and slowly emptied it 
 self into the street, when the final curtain brought the 
 entertainment to an end. 
 
 Carey was in high spirits. His presence at this affair, 
 among these men of his profession, was the last grati 
 fying touch of approval that was needed to make utterly 
 complete the perfect enjoyment of his meteoric and as 
 tonishing success. He felt that his election to the Society 
 of Illustrators was now inevitable and must shortly take 
 place. 
 
 As he emerged from the hot, close theatre, the cold, 
 night air filling his lungs affected him like a powerful 
 stimulant. He didn t want the evening to be over; a 
 craving for more excitement possessed him. As he 
 reached the street, he slipped his hand under Merrivale s 
 elbow. 
 
 "Can t we go some place and get something to eat?" 
 he said. "We might get a bunch together you know 
 the fellows better than I do I d like to give a party." 
 
 "I dare say some of the boys will go across the street 
 to Sherry s for a drink before they go home," Merrivale 
 replied noncommittally. 
 
 "Well, let s go over, too, and see who s there," Carey 
 suggested enthusiastically. 
 
 They said good-night to Gregory Shilling and his 
 cousins and followed the straggling groups of twos and 
 threes that made for the revolving glass door across 
 
278 THE AMATEUR 
 
 the street. They found some thirty or forty of the au 
 dience in the cafe, either standing at the bar or distributed 
 among the tables. At a vacant one they seated them 
 selves, and Carey ordered champagne. Merrivale pro 
 tested at the needlessness of this, but Carey insisted. 
 
 It was simultaneous with the arrival of the wine that 
 Ben Mercy and Mason Edward Camp entered the cafe. 
 Impulsively, Carey jumped to his feet and intercepted 
 them on their way to the bar, urging them to sit at his 
 table. He felt that Mercy had always had a liking for 
 him, and he was anxious to make a more definite impres 
 sion on Camp. The Art Editor good-humouredly accept 
 ed for both, and Carey presently felt a glow of satisfac 
 tion and pride as he sat between the two magazine men 
 where he could be seen by others in the cafe. He was 
 gratified by Camp s show of interest in the methods by 
 which he worked and he took pains to explain them to 
 him, telling him of the strawboard and its remarkable 
 properties. Both Mercy and the artist substituted milder 
 drinks for the champagne Carey urged upon them, but a 
 curly-headed, round-eye-glassed friend of Mercy s, who 
 came up to speak to him, accepted Carey s invitation and 
 drew up a chair. Carey didn t catch his name. 
 
 Some fifteen minutes later, the various groups at the 
 bar and about the tables began to break up. As the men 
 passed where they sat, most of them bowed or spoke 
 to Ben Mercy and Merrivale. Carey s heart swelled 
 with pride. It was very pleasant to be seen in such 
 company, on apparently intimate terms. He was sure 
 that when they were in the foyer, or had reached the 
 street, the men who had passed him would ask each other 
 who was the chap hobnobbing with the Art Editors. 
 While he appeared to listen to Camp, he was composing 
 an imaginary conversation. It dealt in varying forms 
 
THE AMATEUR 279 
 
 with the surprise they expressed when they learnt that 
 he was Carey Williams. 
 
 These pleasing reflections were interrupted by the 
 departure of Camp and Ben Mercy. The latter had to 
 catch a train for his home in Mount Vernon. Merrivale, 
 however, allowed himself to be persuaded to remain a 
 little longer, and the curly-headed, round-eye-glassed man 
 showed no inclination to go. Carey ordered another 
 quart of wine. 
 
 The cafe was fast becoming empty. A group of five 
 or six still lingered at the bar. They were listening at 
 tentively to an argument between two of their number. 
 A tall man in a fur-collared overcoat and silk hat was 
 emphasising the points he was making by firm slaps of 
 his fingertips on the palm of his other hand. The one 
 whom he addressed was short and stocky ; his beard was 
 scrawny, and his hair stuck out from under a broad- 
 brimmed hat like stalks from a bale of hay. 
 
 "That s Graham Johns, the writer," Merrivale an 
 nounced to Carey, noticing his attention. "He s always 
 arguing about something. The little chap is Bonestell. 
 I like his Indian stuff immensely, don t you ? Bob Wilder 
 is standing between them. He took the leading part to 
 night in Charley Miller s play. Clever, wasn t he ?" 
 
 Carey regarded the group for some moments without 
 answering Merrivale. An idea occurred to him and 
 he rose slowly from his seat. Not until he was on his 
 feet was he aware that the wine had strongly affected 
 him. With careful deliberation he approached the bar. 
 
 "Will you gentlemen join us?" He indicated the table 
 where Merrivale and the curly-headed, round-eye-glassed 
 person were still sitting. He spoke slowly, taking pains 
 to articulate each word distinctly. 
 
 Graham Johns paused for a moment, his hand sus- 
 
280 THE AMATEUR 
 
 pended in the air. They all turned and looked at him. 
 Carey s eyes travelled from face to face, waiting for 
 some one to answer him. They continued to stare blankly 
 at him, a mild surprise in their attitude. The pause was 
 long enough to be embarrassing. Carey felt his colour 
 rising. 
 
 "Perhaps you don t know who I am," he said. It 
 occurred to him that the information would have its 
 effect. "I m Carey Williams!" 
 
 No change in the fixed look on their faces followed 
 the announcement. Then abruptly there was a diversion. 
 Some one had entered the cafe behind him. He saw the 
 gaze of the men he was addressing shift past him. Who 
 ever it was possessed more interest for them at the 
 moment than he did. He turned. 
 
 It was Charles Hanna Simpson, and he was drunk. 
 He advanced and stood before Carey, towering above 
 him, his silk hat a little on one side. For a brief moment 
 they stared fixedly at one another, Simpson swaying 
 slightly as he strove to retain his equilibrium. 
 
 "Did did you say your name was Carey Williams ?" 
 he asked. He lurched forward heavily, catching at the 
 back of a chair to steady himself. Instinctively Carey 
 sensed his attitude to be antagonistic. He nodded 
 briefly. 
 
 "You could do American Art and the profession of the 
 illustrator a lasting service if you wanted to, my young 
 friend." 
 
 Simpson spoke with difficulty, the words sliding into 
 one another, the sibilants coming from his lips hissing. 
 
 Carey did not answer. He continued to gaze fixedly 
 at him, conscious of the silence and the tension of the 
 situation. Simpson desired an answer. 
 
 "Do you want to know how?" he insisted. 
 
THE AMATEUR 281 
 
 Carey slowly inclined his head. 
 
 Simpson took a step nearer him. 
 
 "By cutting your throat from ear to ear !" 
 
 He indicated the operation with his forefinger. The 
 motion cost him his balance. He swung sharply about 
 and staggered toward the door. He did not turn round 
 again, but pursued his way toward it and stumbled out 
 into the foyer. The action was exceedingly ludicrous. 
 The group of men at the bar burst into a laugh. Every 
 one s attention reverted upon Carey. He saw a smile 
 on the face of one of the bartenders. 
 
 Simpson s insult had been vicious. A stinging blow 
 from his glove across Carey s face could not have been 
 so effective. Still laughing, the men at the bar passed 
 him, his utter discomfiture furnishing them, only too 
 obviously, with satisfaction. The curly-headed, round- 
 eye-glassed man, who had been drinking with Carey, rose 
 from the table without even a nod for good-bye, and 
 joined them as they left the cafe. Carey heard them 
 laughing again in the foyer. 
 
 Merrivale came toward him. 
 
 "You mustn t mind Simpson. He didn t know what 
 he was saying. . . . You ll pardon me if I run along 
 with the others. Bonestell goes out my way. . . . Good 
 night." 
 
 He held out his hand, and Carey took it mechanically. 
 The other hurried out. Carey turned toward the bar; 
 his face was burning. 
 
 "Champagne," he said, nodding at the bartender. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 OOON after his return to New York, the daily news- 
 & paper possessing the largest circulation in the city 
 had ordered from Carey three of his pretty girl heads. 
 On the Sunday following the entertainment at the 
 Berkeley Lyceum, the first of these appeared. It was 
 reproduced in four colours and occupied a whole front 
 page of the newspaper, dimensions in process work 
 which had, up to that time, never been attained. The 
 newspaper advertised the fact widely. Reproductions 
 of Carey s work were tacked on the corner news stands, 
 furnished free to news dealers, and were also pasted on 
 the sides of the paper s delivery wagons. In the same 
 issue was published a full page interview with Carey. 
 A reporter and an artist had called upon him and while 
 one asked him questions about his life and his pref 
 erences among types of women, the other drew sketches 
 of him, at work bending over his drawing table, posed 
 before his great easel, and seated at his piano. The 
 timely appearance of this interview did much to mitigate 
 the bitterness of the previous night s experience and the 
 sting of Simpson s words. Again and again Carey told 
 himself that it was all professional jealousy. Other men 
 could not bear to stand by and witness the triumphant 
 progress of his success. But, in spite of the oft-repeated 
 reassurance, he writhed at the memory. 
 
 282 
 
THE AMATEUR 283 
 
 He was still in bed, the morning paper strewn over 
 counterpane and floor, the dishes of his finished break 
 fast on a small mahogany table by his pillow, when 
 Springer shouted his name from the studio below and 
 came running upstairs. Carey bounded out of bed to 
 meet him, and they pounded each other on the back in 
 their clumsy manner of expressing their affection. 
 Springer was radiant, and Carey thought he never had 
 seen him so handsome, so clear eyed and clear skinned. 
 He was glowing with youth. The story of the sudden 
 marriage was ready on his lips. 
 
 Springer had realised, before Carey s return, that he 
 was in love with Cecilia. He had had a difficult court 
 ship ; she would have nothing to do with him at first ; but, 
 in a curious way, they kept meeting each other. He 
 determined to change her aversion for him; that had 
 been the first motive to actuate him. Cecilia s friend, 
 Violet Burns, had thought of the possibility of their 
 falling in love with one another before it occurred to 
 either of themselves. She had furthered the match in 
 a quite efficacious way. Springer was under the delusion 
 that it was she in whom he was interested. Since their 
 marriage, both he and Cecilia had marvelled at the clever 
 ness with which Violet Burns had thrown them together 
 without their suspicions being roused. One night they 
 went to see Madam Butterfly; it was the Savage produc 
 tion of the opera in English, at the Garden Theatre. 
 Springer had been deeply affected; Cecilia, shaken to 
 pieces by her emotion. On the way home, he had, with 
 out premeditation, asked her to marry him. Not until 
 the question sprang to his lips had he realised he loved 
 her. With the words, the miracle of love had entered 
 his heart. That night, he could not sleep, nor did he go 
 to bed. Two overwhelming emotions had possessed him 
 
284 THE AMATEUR 
 
 alternately: the great happiness his love brought him; 
 the terrifying fear that he would lose it. For weeks she 
 had refused to commit herself, and yet he was buoyed up 
 by a conviction she returned his love. 
 
 The day after New Year s, Cecilia had found her aunt 
 dead in her bed. It was a violent shock; she had tele 
 phoned Violet Burns, who had relayed the message to 
 Springer. They both had hurried out to the Ninety- 
 second Street apartment, to find her in an alarmingly 
 nervous and hysterical condition. Her grandparents in 
 Altoona, both of them past eighty years of age, were her 
 only remaining relations. They could not make so long 
 a journey. She had felt utterly abandoned. Violet Burns 
 had urged her to come to the Grenoble Hotel and take a 
 room adjoining her own. Springer had insisted that she 
 marry him. The day after the funeral, she had consented, 
 and that night Springer had tried to get in touch with 
 Carey. He had telephoned a half dozen times, and finally 
 had resorted to the telegrams. A week later, they had 
 been married. They had spent their honeymoon in Al 
 toona visiting the old grandparents. It had been their 
 intention to stay but a few days; they had lingered for 
 nearly six weeks. 
 
 Springer told his story in short, rapid sentences and 
 joyous exclamations. He was artlessly radiant, and 
 Carey, listening to his words and watching him intently, 
 realised that he was looking at a changed man, that his 
 friend had emerged from what had been an unlovely 
 chrysalis, into a creature with wings. There was no 
 trace of the gay, frivolous, laughing Don Juan left in 
 him; he was an ardent lover, insane with the great hap 
 piness that had come to him. 
 
 "God, Carey!" he fervently exclaimed, "why don t 
 you get married? It s the most marvellous, divinely 
 
THE AMATEUR 285 
 
 ecstatic state! I begrudge every day I was a bachelor. 
 There s something about marriage that every happily 
 married man recognises; but not one of us, no matter 
 how eloquent, can possibly explain what that something is 
 to you or any one unmarried. It s the same subtle some 
 thing, I suppose, that divides the dead from the living. 
 The dead are all wise to what death is; but, if they really 
 have tried to communicate to us by mediums in spiritual 
 istic messages, they have always found that telling us 
 what we most want to know is impossible. It escapes 
 them completely. If we lost our terror of death . . ." 
 
 Carey was not following. He was wondering how 
 he should find the courage to tell Springer of his affair 
 with Myra. 
 
 "Celia s absolutely the most wonderful girl in the 
 world, Carey. She s so open minded ; she understands a 
 man and has a wonderfully keen insight into human 
 nature. ... Do you remember how old Tilley ragged 
 me for raving about her the day she came into our 
 studio?" 
 
 Carey again was not listening. He was speculating on 
 what would have happened if he had never confessed 
 to Springer that he had at first lied to him about the 
 girl who was now his wife. 
 
 " and we re going to live in Leonia " 
 
 "Going to live in Leonia!" Carey interrupted. 
 
 "In Leonia," the other reiterated, in high good humour. 
 "A number of artists who are married live over there; 
 some of them I know almost intimately. Henry Lyell 
 and Myron Davis both went to Art School with me, and 
 besides there re J. Scott Franklin, MacGavin and Harry 
 Thompson and Al Hamilton, and little Miss Mary Dono- 
 hoe. You couldn t want a better crowd ! Lyell s going 
 out to Arizona to work up some Grand Canyon studies 
 
286 THE AMATEUR 
 
 for a big mural job he s got on hand, and he s letting 
 Celia and me have his house, furnished, just as it stands, 
 for fifty dollars. We re going to move in Monday." 
 
 Carey shut his lips firmly. 
 
 So this was the end of his friendship with Springer! 
 He not only had supplanted him as his closest intimate 
 and confidant by getting married, but he had to go and 
 bury himself over the river in New Jersey among a lot 
 of tame tabbies who sat round and criticised each other! 
 Carey felt intensely annoyed and jealous. Grimly he 
 determined Springer should not know it; Springer would 
 some day remark to his wife in great astonishment that 
 it had been a long time since he d seen Carey. That 
 should be his revenge. 
 
 "We want you to come over whenever you like, Carey, 
 old man. I ll telephone you as soon as we get settled, and 
 then you ve got to be our first week-end guest." He 
 paused a moment, regarding the other intently. "You 
 know, Carey, you re looking awfully seedy these days. 
 You re hitting it up pretty lively, you know you are. I 
 wish to God I had known before I was married what I 
 know now. There s nothing in this sporting life nothing. 
 Fellows used to tell me the same thing once ; but, just as 
 you are thinking now, I used to say to myself that they 
 were the ones who didn t know what they were talking 
 about. But we get wisdom sooner or later and I tell 
 you, Carey, that you re killing yourself, drinking and 
 running round the way you do." 
 
 Carey turned impatiently, struggling to control his 
 fast rising anger. 
 
 "You re a great one to talk, Springer!" he said bit 
 terly. "You ve been the Czar of the tenderloin for I 
 don t know how many years. Now you get married 
 and begin to tell me to quit doing the things and going 
 
THE AMATEUR 287 
 
 to places you used to three hundred and sixty-five days 
 in the year. Some of these joints you made pay by giv 
 ing em a part of your much sought patronage/ 
 
 "I ll not quarrel with you about it, Carey," Springer 
 replied. "What I ve said makes you sore. I m sorry I 
 was such a rounder; I d like to live the last five or six 
 years of my life over again. I presume I should have 
 resented similar advice. You ll come to my way of think 
 ing some day, I hope you will. Until then, we won t 
 talk about it." 
 
 Presently he went away, and Carey in disgust began to 
 dress. Nothing he possessed, not even his success, seemed 
 of any satisfaction to him. For the moment he hated 
 Myra ; his studio and its lavish appointments was a cum 
 bersome burden ; he had no friends that mattered to him. 
 Life no longer contained any interest for him. 
 
 He telephoned to the garage and ordered his car 
 brought round. Alone he drove it over to Long Island, 
 and twice was halted and handed a summons for speed 
 ing. He spent the night at a road house, where he joined 
 a party of motorists who were in a mood as reckless as 
 his own. 
 
 The following week he devoted to serious work. He 
 was surprised to find how many orders had accumulated, 
 for he had not made more than two or three of his heads 
 since the first of the year. Some of the publications, 
 whose commissions he had agreed to accept, were becom 
 ing impatient. There seemed to be an ever increasing 
 demand for his "heads." Orders for more came in 
 every mail. Among these he picked and chose. An 
 swering the letters that came to him became a burden. 
 He formed the habit of driving down in his car to 
 the Plaza Hotel and dictating his correspondence to 
 
283 THE AMATEUR 
 
 the public stenographer there. This gave place to the 
 stenographer s daily visit of an hour to his studio. His 
 mail was always interesting, troublesome though the an 
 swering of it might be. Besides the welcome communi 
 cations containing cheques and orders from first-class 
 publishing houses and magazines, there was a certain 
 class of letters he came to term "pesky pesters." Pestif 
 erous was the word he had in mind when he coined the 
 phrase. These letters were from small concerns, minor 
 publications, commercial houses and hotels, either offer 
 ing ridiculously inadequate prices for his work, or asking 
 him to quote his rates. Ignoring them was the only 
 escape he had from their persistence. A certain portion 
 of his letters contained appeals for posters from charit 
 able organisations, and a great many were written by 
 women. The last were of an astonishing variety; they 
 came from rich women and poor women, wives of mil 
 lionaires and shop girls. Invariably they offered to pose 
 for him. After following up one or two of these from 
 idle curiosity, he came to the conclusion that wisdom lay 
 in meting out to them the same treatment he accorded 
 to the "pesky pesters." 
 
 The great bulk of his correspondence was with manu 
 facturers who solicited his endorsement of new articles 
 they were about to place on the market. Some of these 
 asked his permission to name the product after him. 
 Carey appreciated this was good advertising and fre 
 quently gave his consent. He endorsed pipe tobacco, lead 
 pencils, drawing ink, Chinese white, even shoes and a 
 certain kind of glove he affected. In the stores they sold 
 "Carey Williams collars," "Carey Williams perfume," 
 "Carey Williams golf jackets" and "Carey Williams 
 hats." There was the "Carey Williams" way for women 
 to do their hair: the double plaits encircling the head; 
 
THE AMATEUR 289 
 
 "Carey Williams red" was a new colour; silks and fabrics 
 were made up to match the shade of Cecilia s lovely hair. 
 A new comic opera had a pony ballet that was composed 
 of red-haired "Carey Williams girls." 
 
 It was all exciting, and Carey was gratified and flat 
 tered. His popularity was exhilarating. He found, how 
 ever, a certain irritation in doing the same work over 
 and over. Long ago he had exhausted his ingenuity in 
 thinking up different postures and combinations for his 
 red-haired girl. He drew her with tennis rackets, golf 
 clubs and canoe paddles, in motoring regalia, in sweaters, 
 in sailor blouses and yachting caps, in riding habits and 
 hunting costumes, as a Spanish girl, a French girl, an 
 Italian girl, wearing Indian beads and feathers, coquet 
 ting in Dutch caps and military busbys, peering out of 
 carriage doors, peering in at cottage windows, looking 
 up, looking down, looking over her shoulder, gazing di 
 rectly from the picture. A gradual distaste for the same 
 ness of the work grew into a loathing for it. 
 
 In the hope of providing a slight variation from the 
 same features, the same shade of hair, he persuaded Myra 
 to pose for him. She proved an excellent model, and 
 Carey was congratulating himself on the substitution 
 when the head he had done of her was returned by the 
 magazine for which it was intended, with the request that 
 the hair be changed to red and the "braided" coils indi 
 cated. It was evident that Carey had changed models; 
 the new one was, of course, very beautiful and charming, 
 but there was some appealing quality in the face of the 
 "Irish girl" that every one had learned to love and expect. 
 Carey disgustedly made the changes. 
 
 The adoption of a suggestion that Springer had given 
 him during the earlier days of their acquaintance resulted 
 in bringing in between four and five thousand dollars. 
 
290 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Springer had counselled him to stipulate, in selling a 
 head, that the original drawing remain his property and 
 that he dispose of only the reproduction rights to the 
 magazine or publishing house. An exhibition of Harry 
 Lamberton Lewis s water-colours at Macbeth s Galleries 
 on Fifth Avenue suggested to him the idea of arranging 
 for an exhibit of his own. He collected as many samples 
 of his work as possible from the various publishing houses 
 in New York City, and of these he selected about ninety, 
 upon which he spent a week retouching and cleaning. 
 Late in February the exhibition took place, and, during 
 the three weeks it lasted, he sold seventy-four of his 
 heads at prices ranging from fifty to a hundred dollars 
 apiece. He spent the money at once in buying an electric 
 brougham for Myra. 
 
 Myra was a constant source of expense to him. He 
 could retain her affection only by elaborate presents, and, 
 as time went on, he had to provide a more and more 
 costly variety to evoke any expression of gratitude or 
 pleasure. Even though he was as much infatuated as 
 ever, and eagerly gathered up the crumbs of genuine feel 
 ing she occasionally let fall, he was far from being en 
 tirely deluded by her subterfuges. When he came to 
 realise that there was no possibility of her ever learning 
 to love him as she had loved Springer, he frankly ac 
 knowledged to himself that his "leg was being pulled." 
 When he had had enough of the affair, he determined he 
 would terminate the liaison abruptly and leave Myra to 
 go back to the stage. He was perfectly willing to be 
 played as a sucker only as long as there was any fun 
 in it for himself. 
 
 Myra enjoyed the intimate little dinners Carey fre 
 quently gave at his studio. There were sometimes six, 
 more often ten or a dozen persons at these affairs. Myra 
 
 
THE AMATEUR 291 
 
 provided the girls and Carey the dinner, the wine and 
 the men. Gregory Shilling and Mark Harrison were con 
 stant guests and so was the young actor, Gerald Crofts, 
 whom Myra had introduced. Crofts was independently 
 rich and owned a car of the same make as Carey s. After 
 dinner the party would crowd into the two motors and 
 drive out to Yonkers, to some road house on Long 
 Island, or to Scarsdale where Croft s married sister 
 lived. The roads were in bad condition, the ruts frozen 
 solid; but the drivers vied with one another in reckless 
 ness. After one of these trips, Carey was generally 
 obliged to lay up his car in the repair shop for two or 
 three days, sometimes longer. This inconvenience led 
 him to get another automobile. From considering a 
 twenty-five to twenty-eight hundred dollar purchase, he 
 progressed by easy mental stages to the conclusion that 
 a seven thousand dollar foreign car was the most eco 
 nomical and satisfactory in the long run. The arrival 
 of a letter from Joe Downer announcing the sale of his 
 real estate at home, and a credit of nine thousand, two 
 hundred dollars resulting therefrom in a local bank, 
 helped him materially to this decision. 
 
 The new motor was an intense joy to Carey. It was 
 one of the low hung cars that were just coming into 
 vogue, and attracted attention wherever he drove it; its 
 colour scheme of bright yellow and crimson made it 
 additionally conspicuous. Carey keenly enjoyed the sen 
 sation he created when, with Myra in a fetching motoring 
 costume beside him, he joined the disjointed chain of 
 motor-driven vehicles and carriages on Fifth Avenue and 
 followed the slowly moving procession until it melted 
 mysteriously away. 
 
 One Sunday, Carey took the car alone over the Fort 
 Lee ferry and visited Springer and Cecilia in Leonia. He 
 
292 THE AMATEUR 
 
 was in an ill-temper as he drove the heavy automobile 
 over the hard, rutty roads and was obliged frequently to 
 stop to inquire his way. Leonia was as bare and cheerless 
 as the flat palm of a giant s hand. Winter lay malignantly 
 across the landscape, oppressive, grey, relentless. It was 
 biting cold and snow would soon be falling. 
 
 Carey found the house at last, perched on the side of 
 a hill. It was small and rambling, of a dingy whiteness, 
 with storm glass partitions following the line of the 
 porch. The garden was a twisted heap of brambles ; piles 
 of soiled snow marked where the drifts had gathered; a 
 broken brick path wound its way up to the steps of the 
 porch from the swing gate in the picket fence. 
 
 Springer and Cecilia appeared glad enough to see him, 
 hauling him in, wringing his hand, shouting his name. 
 But Carey felt their welcome was forced. They were 
 cordial because they wanted to be, but they weren t really 
 glad to see him. Whatever had been the ties of friend 
 ship between himself and Cecilia, between himself and 
 Springer, were broken now; the common ground on 
 which heretofore they had met was gone. There was 
 something condescending in their attitudes toward him; 
 something "sweetly cordial" ; Carey felt that each wished 
 to impress him with the fact that they had entirely for 
 gotten the days of their old separate association with 
 him when it was he that had been their closest intimate, 
 that the memory of moments and incidents in their past 
 friendships with him which he still cherished and happily 
 recalled, they now had ceased to remember. They had 
 formed a comradeship of their own, one much deeper 
 and more wonderful than theirs had ever been with Carey. 
 He could not comprehend the perfect understanding they 
 had reached ! 
 
 They insisted he should stay to dinner ; they would not 
 
THE AMATEUR 293 
 
 hear of his returning to the city without sitting down 
 with them; they refused to listen to his objections. Care^ 
 soon realised that his misgivings as to the wisdom of 
 accepting their invitation were justified. Springer was 
 irritatingly smug about his happiness. He had changed 
 astonishingly. His old infectious recklessness was gone; 
 his rash impulsiveness was curbed; he was sobered; his 
 charm, his youth, his buoyant adolescence had lost their 
 bloom. His supreme self-complacency, his complete satis 
 faction with his wedded happiness was provoking. While 
 there was no reference made to the topic on which they 
 had recently disagreed, Carey sensed in his attitude a 
 desire to show him that he was in the right. Cecilia, 
 however, impressed him as more interesting. She, too, 
 had changed very definitely; she had become more mel 
 low, richer, riper, rounder. There was no trace of em 
 barrassment in her greeting, nor did there remain any 
 suggestion of her old, shy manner. In fact, she Chris 
 tian-named Carey at once, but he thought he recognised 
 in her manner toward him, that of the woman who has 
 wedded the man of her choice and is at pains to be kind 
 and considerate to her discarded lover. She was a trifle 
 too solicitous and attentive. 
 
 The inside of the house they had rented from Henry 
 Lyell struck Carey as extremely commonplace, and they 
 seemed equally so. He marvelled at the change in both 
 of them. Cecilia had loved the world of living, breathing 
 people, where every day some event of vital interest 
 occurred to quicken the imagination, give zest to one s 
 existence. Springer had been all eagerness for such liv 
 ing; he had set the pace for the pack to follow. Now, 
 Carey found him with one of Cecilia s aprons tied high 
 up under his arms, slowly cranking an ice-cream freezer 
 while his wife sprinkled flour in the bottom of the pan 
 
294 THE AMATEUR 
 
 that had held the roast, and scraped it into paste for the 
 ^ravy. Carey sat on a hard, wooden chair in the hot 
 kitchen while dinner was being prepared. Steam poured 
 from under the lids of several saucepans on the stove, 
 and the smell of boiling vegetables choked the heated 
 air. Springer shouted at him above the creaking of the 
 ice-cream freezer, and Cecilia continually passed between 
 them as she needed one thing after another from the 
 closet beside him. Dinner was a succession of the proverb 
 ial comments of all newly-married couples. Carey re 
 membered some of their exact phrases as legends to pic 
 tures in Mirth. Cecilia related a long story about the day 
 Mark Harrison had come to dinner, and the steak she was 
 broiling caught on fire and nearly burnt the house down. 
 Springer asserted the hot biscuits Cecilia made as quite 
 equal to the ones his mother baked in the old home in 
 Waterbury. Carey wondered what they would have 
 thought had they suspected how ridiculous he thought 
 them. They were typical "newly-weds," dismally unin 
 teresting to any one save themselves. 
 
 Cecilia cleared after each course, Springer offering to 
 help and being firmly refused, as such assistance was con 
 sidered unmanly by his wife. 
 
 "We had an awful fight at first," Springer confided 
 to Carey, "over washing the dishes. Celia refused point 
 blank to let me do it, and I was equally firm. I couldn t 
 have her out there slaving away while I sat in here com 
 fortably smoking. We finally compromised ; she does the 
 washing and I wipe. We have regular races to see 
 whether I can keep up with her. She s as quick as 
 lightning. I m going to get a Swede as soon as we make 
 another payment on the lot." 
 
 They were eager to tell Carey about the bungalow 
 they intended to build. Violet Burns had a brother who 
 
THE AMATEUR 295 
 
 was an architect; he had drawn the plans for them for 
 nothing. They got out the blueprints and spread them 
 out on the dining-room table, pushing back the silver-ware 
 and the soiled dinner dishes, weighing down the curling 
 edges of the heavy paper with the salt and pepper casters. 
 
 See, here was the ground floor plan : here was the long, 
 wide living-room running the whole length of the house; 
 the big fireplace was to be here, windows there and there. 
 It was all to be so original : there was to be no entrance 
 hall- way ; there was to be no dining-room ; there were to 
 be French windows opening on to the garden ; there was 
 to be a pergola and a red tile flooring. 
 
 "How very original!" Carey murmured, but they didn t 
 catch his sarcasm. 
 
 "And you must walk over and see the lot," Springer 
 said enthusiastically. 
 
 But here Carey balked. He was sorry he couldn t 
 stay longer, he had to get back to the city, he had a 
 date, he d be over again soon. He clambered back into 
 his powerful car with a sense of relief and revengeful sat 
 isfaction that they must return to their dish-washing 
 without any of the help he felt sure they had expected 
 him to contribute. 
 
 It was on the ferry boat on the way home that he met 
 Doctor Floherty. They had not seen each other for a 
 year, not since their chance meeting on the street soon 
 after Carey had begun to live at The Rembrandt Studios. 
 The Doctor was now in charge of the laboratory at St. 
 Vincent s Hospital. He was satisfied with his work and 
 was well contented. He was engaged in making some 
 interesting experiments in cultures, for which his duties 
 in connection with the hospital work allowed him time. 
 He was eager to have Carey tell about himself ; his suc 
 cess seemed to the Doctor a marvellous achievement, and 
 
296 THE AMATEUR 
 
 he wanted to hear Carey s own account of it. His simple 
 admiration, the interest and almost deference he showed, 
 went far to dispel the unsatisfactory feeling the visit to 
 Leonia had left behind. Carey thawed under the warmth 
 of the Doctor s friendliness. He decided he liked him 
 very much ; they promised they were going to see a great 
 deal more of one another. 
 
 In answer to his inquiries, the Doctor told him that 
 he had long ago left the Fillmores. Durrant and Lambert 
 were the only two of the old crowd who still lived there; 
 a cheap class of young clerks from the American To 
 bacco Company filled the house and there were also some 
 Filipinos. The doctor was living on One Hundred and 
 Seventh Street, with some graduates of his medical 
 fraternity. 
 
 When the boat bumped its way into the ferry slip on the 
 New York side, Carey insisted that the doctor should 
 get into his car and be driven wherever he wanted to go. 
 Floherty had been playing bridge in Englewood, but had 
 been obliged to stop early in order to get home and dress 
 for a tea his aunt was giving at the Buckingham on Fifth 
 Avenue. 
 
 As the car rolled out into the ferry depot, Carey 
 stopped it at one side, out of the way of the traffic, and, 
 getting out, went back to the news stand for a couple of 
 boxes of his favourite cigarettes. He was feeling for the 
 change in his pocket when his eye fell upon a magazine 
 displayed upon the counter. It arrested his attention as 
 if he had suddenly seen a thief s hand reaching for his 
 purse. It was Overman s, and the design upon the cover 
 might have been his own work, one of his pretty-girl 
 heads, only it was not! It was an excellent imitation, 
 the same features, the same double plaits about the head, 
 the same dull red shade of hair. Examining it closely, 
 
THE AMATEUR 297 
 
 Carey could see the texture of the strawboard showing 
 faintly in the screen of the black plate. It was signed, 
 boldly and distinctly, "Mason Edward Camp." 
 
 With amused, contemptuous interest, and yet feeling 
 annoyed and angry, Carey bought the magazine and gave 
 it to Doctor Floherty. 
 
 " Imitation is the sincerest flattery/ they say, Doc," 
 he remarked, climbing into his seat beneath the steering 
 gear, "but can you beat that for unmitigated nerve!" 
 
 Indignation was still smouldering within him as he 
 drove Floherty down to One Hundred and Seventh 
 Street. The doctor and his three friends lived in an 
 apartment on the ground floor. He prevailed upon Carey 
 to come in with him and have a "nip," for a sharp wind 
 had sprung up and their ears were tingling. In the tiny 
 parlour, on a convertible couch, they found one of Flo- 
 herty s house-mates asleep. His coat was over the back 
 of a chair, his slippers had fallen from his white-socked 
 feet, the Sunday papers lay in scattered sheets upon the 
 floor. The sleeper s head had slid from the hard cushion 
 over the edge of the couch and hung down, resting upon 
 the sharp wooden support eight inches below the level 
 of the seat. His mouth was open and he was snoring in 
 prolonged, raucous inhalations. 
 
 Floherty began to laugh. 
 
 "It s old Mac," he said, "as good a scout as was ever 
 made. Donald Graham MacTavish can you match the 
 Scotch of that?" 
 
 He raised his hand and brought it smartly down upon 
 the white sole of his friend s foot. 
 
 "Hey there, Mac wake up !" he commanded. "Wake 
 up! You re strangling yourself." 
 
 MacTavish started, made an effort to sit up, and rolled 
 ignominiously on to the floor. 
 
298 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Floherty and Carey shouted. The subject of their 
 mirth gathered himself up and sat on the edge of the 
 couch, rubbing his curly, sandy head, blinking first at 
 one and then the other of them. Presently he joined in 
 their laughter. 
 
 He was a pleasant- faced Scot, with racial traits evident 
 in speech and feature. Across the bridge of his nose and 
 beneath his eyes ran a broad band of freckles. He had 
 a comical expression, and Carey watched him, amused 
 and interested, as he struggled to throw off the last of 
 his drowsiness, blinking and smiling good naturedly at 
 them. 
 
 Floherty produced some Scotch whiskey and Mac- 
 Tavish suggested a toddy. They all went out into the 
 kitchen, and Carey sat on the wash tubs while MacTavish, 
 with the manner of an adept in such matters, began to 
 putter with saucepans and crush lump sugar in a drug 
 gist s mortar. 
 
 It reminded Carey of the early, grey mornings during 
 his first summer in New York, when Durrant, Jerry Hart, 
 the Doctor and himself used to get their breakfast in the 
 Fillmore s basement kitchen preparatory to their all-day 
 visit to Van Cortlandt Park. Floherty and he recalled 
 various incidents of those days, and presently they were 
 in high spirits. 
 
 The hot Scotch was pronounced a great success, and 
 MacTavish was pressed into making another. Under the 
 influence of the two, Floherty decided that it would be 
 impossible to waste the afternoon at a tea at the Buck 
 ingham. Carey suggested they all get into the car and 
 drive out to The Crow s Nest, a road house just beyond 
 Harlem that he and Springer had visited on the first 
 night of their acquaintance. They would be certain to 
 find a lively crowd there, as the Sunday liquor law was 
 
THE AMATEUR 299 
 
 never enforced, although the bar presented a closed 
 appearance. Both Floherty and MacTavish were at once 
 enthusiastic over the idea, and a lively scramble followed 
 while they both changed into other clothes. 
 
 Carey drove them out in less than twenty minutes, but 
 they found the place less gay than they had expected. 
 It was pleasant, however, to sit around the great stone 
 fireplace in the tap room and watch the bright flames 
 lick their way up the chimney while more mixtures of 
 hot Scotch were brewed and drunk. 
 
 Some remark about a woman by MacTavish reminded 
 Carey of Myra. He had never taken any of his friends 
 with him to see her, but now this appeared an excellent 
 thing to do. He considered telephoning at first, but he 
 felt fairly certain he would find her at home. 
 
 "Come on, you fellows," he said, jumping to his feet, 
 "I ve got an idea ! We ll leave this place and go to an 
 other where we ll have a much better time !" 
 
 They accepted his leadership cheerfully and got into 
 their great coats again with much boisterous struggling. 
 Carey whirled them through Harlem, down Broadway, 
 back into town. He loved these mad dashes ; they thrilled 
 him as nothing else he did ; constantly he played a reckless 
 game with policemen at crossings and on motor cycles. 
 If he evaded them, slipped by, escaping their vigilance, 
 he won the game ; if he failed, they won, and arrest might 
 follow. Recklessness, daring and luck, all had favoured 
 him, and within the city limits he had only once been ar 
 rested. To-day it was especially exciting, for the prom 
 ised snow had begun to fall, the streets were wet and 
 slippery, and the car skidded treacherously. The nar 
 rower the margin by which an accident was averted, the 
 more thrilling it became. 
 
 It was ten minutes before six when Carey stopped in 
 
300 THE AMATEUR 
 
 front of Myra s house. Lotta, the capped-and-aproned 
 coloured maid, let them in, and Carey was delighted to 
 learn that Myra was at home. The two physicians passed 
 into the tiny, dainty reception room, and Carey ran down 
 the hall to Myra s own room. 
 
 He found her reclining in an upholstered arm-chair, 
 her beslippered feet propped upon the bed, while, over 
 the back of the chair, her lovely hair was spread, like a 
 mermaid s floating in the water. Lotta had been brushing 
 it while Myra turned rapidly the pages of a notorious 
 novel. She greeted Carey more affectionately than usual. 
 
 "Hello, kiddo," she said, "I m glad you ve turned up 
 at last. I was beginning to be afraid you d thrown me 
 down. It s been more n a week since you ve been here." 
 
 "Do you want to go on a party, Myra?" Carey said 
 eagerly, sitting down on the arm of her chair. 
 
 "Careful, Carey," Myra protested, pushing him gently 
 away. "Lotta s got that all nicely brushed!" She re 
 garded him a moment with a new thought in her mind. 
 
 "How much ve you been drinking?" 
 
 "Drinking!" Carey answered, pettishly. "What are 
 you talking about? I ve had about two drinks!" 
 
 She continued to study him a moment, and then, as if 
 satisfied that he was speaking the truth, she asked: 
 
 "What kind of a party?" 
 
 "Oh, I don t know," Carey answered vaguely. "I ve 
 brought a couple of friends along, and I thought you 
 might be able to scare up two girls, and we d all go to 
 dinner some place." 
 
 Myra s eyes widened. 
 
 "That sounds good to me. Cora rang up this after 
 noon and asked me what was doing to-night. She wanted 
 me to go to a sacred concert. 
 
 Myra s silvery laugh rang out musically. 
 
THE AMATEUR 301 
 
 "There s Cora s sister but she s got a beau. * She 
 reflected a moment, and then clapped her hands to 
 gether joyfully. 
 
 "Mary! Mary Brown! The very girl. Oh o o!" 
 Myra laughed again. "She s lots of fun!" 
 
 "She doesn t sound very interesting," Carey said, du 
 biously. 
 
 Myra rolled her eyes and made a little "o" of a mouth. 
 
 "Wait till you get her started, once !" she warned him. 
 "You re a duck, Carey, I love parties like this, and 
 [ ve been awfully lonely to-day. Are your friends amus 
 ing?" 
 
 Carey carried the story of the contemplated party to 
 MacTavish and Floherty while Myra telephoned to the 
 two girls and dressed. The three of them were in a 
 lilarious mood Carey had found the ingredients for 
 some cocktails in the sideboard in the dining room when 
 Vtyra s friends arrived. They rode up in a taxi and pres 
 ently Carey was mixing cocktails for all six of them, 
 while they argued about where they should go to dine. 
 
 Myra s friends were all that Carey hoped for or could 
 expect. One of them, Mary Brown, was very dainty and 
 prettily made, exquisitely dressed in a vivid green silk, 
 fur-trimmed, gold embroidered street suit; she wore 
 her very rich auburn hair in the "turban swirl" that was 
 then an advanced fashion. Cora was rather tall and 
 willowy, with dark eyes in soft shadows, a nose a trifle 
 retrousse, and a warm, fine skin, olive-hued and almost 
 transparent. She wore a three-piece tailor suit of a 
 wonderful taupe shade, the lines of which were long and 
 graceful, strikingly setting off her splendid figure. But 
 Myra, in black velvet and white furs, with a broad 
 Gainsborough hat trimmed in the same fur, was more 
 
302 THE AMATEUR 
 
 beautiful and even more fashionably gowned than the 
 others in their more elaborate costumes. Carey thought 
 he had never seen three such superb women. 
 
 Myra insisted that she was ravenous, and declined to 
 waste so sharp an appetite on anything but the most care 
 fully prepared and seasoned food. It was this that de 
 cided them in favour of the old Martin s on Ninth 
 Street. All agreed that no such cooking was to be had 
 elsewhere in the city. While the party were putting on 
 their coats and wraps, Carey telephoned for a table. 
 
 It was a biting cold night. Underfoot, on window 
 copings, roofs and ledges, wherever a surface presented 
 itself, the heavy snow gathered. As Carey drove the car 
 along the broad roadways in the Park, he could hardly 
 see before him. The flying particles of snow were swiftly 
 swept into his eyes which he was forced to keep pain 
 fully squinted; the wet flakes quickly gathering on the 
 glass of the wind-shield had already rendered it opaque. 
 Myra, in a great furry bear skin, cuddled close against 
 his arm, while the others in the tonneau laughed and 
 screamed in exaggerated mirth. As they skirted the Mall, 
 the double row of arc lights on either side cast toward 
 them a dull, steady radiance like the reflection of bull s- 
 eye lanterns through frosted window glass. Fifth Ave 
 nue was deserted, a long, vacant lane, its white vista 
 broken here and there by a solitary taxi-cab or a hurrying, 
 bundled figure. An occasional bar of light beneath a 
 half-drawn window curtain would give evidence of cheer 
 and occupancy within the tall, forbidding mansions that 
 flanked the upper part of the street. Lower down, hotels 
 and clubs were brightly lighted, and before the churches, 
 the sextons, armed with brooms, were sweeping away 
 the snow from steps and walks. 
 
 As Carey swung the car into Ninth Street, he was sud- 
 
THE AMATEUR 303 
 
 denly obliged to put all his strength into his emergency 
 brake and his full weight upon the foot-brake. A man 
 bad started to make the crossing, just as Carey s powerful 
 icadlights flashed upon him when the car began to turn. 
 In his haste to regain the sidewalk, the pedestrian s foot 
 slipped and he sprawled helplessly on the snow-covered 
 Davement. Fortunately, because of the number of people 
 ic carried, Carey had slowed down. The heavy car, its 
 wheels arrested in an iron grip, skidded violently on the 
 slippery surface of the street, swung completely around, 
 and brought up sharply against the curbing with an 
 ominous crack. The group in back was flung roughly 
 against the inside of the tonneau; one of the girls 
 screamed. Carey, glancing angrily at the cause of the 
 mishap, who still squatted upon his knees on the sidewalk, 
 dlled his engine and, squirming out from behind the 
 steering wheel, swung himself over the side of the car 
 and leaped to the street. The damage, as far as he could 
 determine, was not as serious as he feared. Two of the 
 spokes on the rear wheel were split, but the fractures were 
 not bad enough to prevent them proceeding at once. He 
 rose to his feet, reassuring the others. There was a gen 
 eral laugh of relief. 
 
 "Pretty lucky!" 
 
 "Oh, my ribs ! I thought I was a goner !" 
 
 "Cora, you mashed me . . ." 
 
 "That was a narrow squeak." 
 
 "It s a good thing you slowed up." 
 
 "Why, we might all ve been killed !" 
 
 "Kiss me quick, somebody ! I m awful lucky." 
 
 A shrill clamour broke out from all of them. Carey 
 cranked his engine and struggled back into his seat. 
 Slowly he released his clutch, and the great car jerked and 
 
304 THE AMATEUR 
 
 rolled out into the Avenue, Carey swinging it with diffi 
 culty into Ninth Street. 
 
 "That s the satisfaction of having a good car," he said 
 to Myra. "A cheap, American make would have been 
 smashed to kindling wood." 
 
 Floherty leaned over to him from the back seat. 
 
 "Do you know who that was? Who that man was 
 you nearly ran over?" 
 
 "Ran over?" Carey protested. "I saved his life, and 
 it will cost me a couple of hundred dollars!" 
 
 "That was old Blanchard," Floherty said, disregarding 
 Carey s digression. "You know, Anna s father, whom we 
 knew at the Fillmore s." 
 
 "I wish I d given him a bump," Carey answered, 
 bringing the car to a standstill in front of the cafe. "I 
 would have, if I had known who he was," he added. "He 
 always was in the way." 
 
 They got out of the motor and trooped up the stairs 
 into the brightly lighted foyer. A rush of appetising 
 odours met them, the rich smell of roasting meats, the 
 savoury fragrance of rare culinary combinations, the in 
 viting aroma of French cooking. Myra clapped her 
 hands, and, in the entrance hall way, pulled Carey s head 
 down and suddenly kissed him. It was little more than 
 a swift touch, like a child s kiss, yet it sent the blood 
 rushing into Carey s face. It was such evidence of 
 Myra s capricious affection that made her seem to him 
 infinitely charming, infinitely dear. 
 
 He was in gay spirits as he led the way to the round 
 table at one side that had been reserved. The party s 
 entrance created the stir among the other diners he had 
 come to find so agreeable. There was not a person in the 
 room who did not follow with his eyes their progress to 
 their table. 
 
THE AMATEUR 305 
 
 Carey ordered elaborately, starting off with a choice 
 collection of hors d &uvres and selecting an old vintage 
 of champagne to be properly chilled. A double order of 
 cocktails was served. This stimulant on top of the hot 
 Scotches and the drinks he had imbibed during the after 
 noon produced the feeling of excitement and hilarity 
 he so keenly craved. MacTavish gave evidence of being 
 already slightly drunk; he was leaning conspicuously 
 over Cora s shoulder, murmuring in her ear, while the 
 girl laughed shrilly, telling him audibly to behave. 
 
 A report, the breaking of a window glass, a concus 
 sion that shocked him violently, brought Carey, half 
 staggering, to his feet, a wild feeling of alarm possessing 
 him. Other men had risen ; Myra began to scream, catch 
 ing his arm, sinking to her knees upon the floor beside 
 him. There was a rush of human voices, the clatter of 
 broken crockery, a sudden swift movement upon the part 
 of the standing figures. In bewilderment Carey gazed 
 about, trying to understand what had happened. 
 
 Simultaneously with the second shot, he caught sight 
 of the malignant face and the aimed revolver through the 
 glass partition of the cafe. In that brief moment he 
 remembered the side entrance, the short flight of stairs 
 from the street, the glass door, opening directly into the 
 restaurant, that was never used. A roar of noise as 
 sailed him, the shouts of the men drowning the shrill 
 bleating of the women. Some one bumped roughly 
 against him, knocking him back into his chair. 
 
 It was Blanchard s fourth shot that was most effec 
 tive. Carey felt it strike him. A sudden, utter weakness 
 overcame him; his head fell forward among the dishes 
 and glassware upon the table. 
 
 Noise noise noise. Round him whirled red and 
 black chaos. There were blinding lights and warm, 
 
3 o6 THE AMATEUR 
 
 sticky blood ; there was blood all over him. Then came 
 pain, swift, sharp, piercing. Some one was troubling 
 him; he was being moved; they were torturing him. 
 Quick, hurting fingers played upon him, twisting, press 
 ing, pulling. Once he cried out. Blood filled his throat, 
 all but strangling him. A cough racked his body. Then 
 there was darkness for what seemed a long time. 
 Through the blackness that surrounded and weighed him 
 down, continually he heard a querulous old voice, brok 
 enly accusing him: 
 
 "He s a practised seducer ! He s a menace to Society ! 
 He ruined my daughter." 
 
 There were more lights and more voices. A deafening 
 roar of hideous noise. Then they lifted him. The sound 
 of the shifting, struggling feet, the warning, authoritative 
 voice giving directions reached his dimming conscious 
 ness. A violent pain up along his back and neck gripped 
 him. 
 
 Swiftly the darkness rushed down upon him again. 
 
PART THREE 
 
PART THREE 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE hot sunshine poured in through the high hos 
 pital window and flung a brilliant parallelogram of 
 light upon one corner of the trimly drawn white sheet 
 that covered his bed. Sister Claudia, in flowing black 
 robes, was arranging the sterilised instruments, the pus 
 basins, the gauze sponges, the roll of absorbent cotton 
 and bandages for the doctor s visit at eleven. Carey shut 
 his eyes wearily. The bed sores upon his right hip and 
 knee pained him acutely. In the room adjoining, a plain 
 tive child s voice called incessantly : 
 
 "Alice! Alice! Alice!" 
 
 He had listened to that pathetic wail all night. 
 
 "How is he to-day, Sister?" he asked. 
 
 "He s better, I believe. The delirium won t last." 
 
 "Who is Alice?" 
 
 "His favourite sister. She s been beside him since 
 yesterday morning. He doesn t recognise her." 
 
 Carey s neighbour was a little boy of eight years, who 
 had been brought to St. Vincent s two days ago, suddenly 
 afflicted with tetanus poisoning. 
 
 Carey fell to counting the repetitions of the small suf 
 ferer s cry. During the night, he had counted as many as 
 
 309 
 
310 THE AMATEUR 
 
 two hundred and eighty. Long after he had desisted, the 
 plaint continued regularly, at intervals, like the ticking of 
 a clock. 
 
 "Alice! Alice! Alice!" 
 
 Doctor Emerson opened the door briskly. 
 
 "Well, young man/ he said cheerily, "how are we 
 to-day?" 
 
 He slipped out of his coat, plunged his hands into a 
 basin of warm water Sister Claudia had arranged for 
 him, and began to scrub them vigorously. A young in 
 terne, a new comer at the hospital, in a white sterilised 
 gown, followed him, working upon his hands a pair of 
 dripping rubber gloves. The nurse withdrew. 
 
 Carey winced and shut his teeth as the Doctor flung 
 back the bed clothes and deftly removed the coarse, 
 rough hospital night gown, slit up the back, that he was 
 obliged to wear. He was familiar to the last twinge with 
 the dreary routine of pain before him. For ten weeks he 
 had received this daily visit, experienced this daily tor 
 ture. 
 
 The Doctor examined the draining tubes in the fleshy 
 part of his arm, squeezing the slits from which they 
 protruded forcibly. A groan, that sounded more like a 
 sharp grunt through shut teeth and lips, followed by a 
 quick intake of breath, escaped Carey with each vigorous 
 pinch. The physician had long passed that state in their 
 relationship when there was any necessity for meaning 
 less expressions of sympathy. They had grown to like 
 and thoroughly understand one another. 
 
 Dr. Emerson murmured something to the interne. 
 
 "I m going to take these out, my boy," he continued, 
 addressing his patient. Carey noticed that the Doctor 
 always raised his voice when he spoke to him, as one 
 
THE AMATEUR 31 
 
 might to a deaf person. "And I congratulate you on 
 escaping a very dirty case of infection. Three weeks 
 ago, I was almost certain I should have to amputate." 
 
 He turned to his assistant. 
 
 "In twenty-five years experience, I have never seen so 
 aggravated a case. The bullet travelled the length of 
 the arm, entering just above the wrist. The humerus 
 and the ulna were both shattered; splinters of bone were 
 driven all through the muscular tissues. Eight days 
 after the arm was set, there were evidences of infection. 
 We had a difficult time." 
 
 He paused a moment. 
 
 "Now, let s look at the shoulder and neck." 
 
 With a quick jerk, he stripped the adhesive tapes from 
 Carey s back and chest that held the dressing in place. 
 Carey s whole body twitched violently. The skin from 
 which the adhesions were removed was raw and bleeding. 
 
 "You ll have to rig up some other kind of bandage, 
 Cudworth," the physician said to the interne. "The skin 
 here won t stand the tape any more." 
 
 He bent over the gaping wound. 
 
 "You see," he continued, still speaking to his assistant, 
 "there s where we had to probe. The bullet was deeper 
 than we expected. The collarbone was fractured, the 
 bone curiously splitting the bullet, and we found a jagged 
 piece of the lead buried over here. The X-ray was not 
 clear, and I had to open up, fearing infection. ... I 
 can t understand why those edges won t knit. That 
 flesh looks perfectly healthy!" 
 
 He prodded Carey with his finger tips. 
 
 "No suppuration here! It s curious, Cudworth, what 
 you run across in surgery: the unexpected always pre 
 sents itself. Now, see here; the more dangerous per 
 foration was through the right lung, and yet that gave 
 
312 THE AMATEUR 
 
 us no trouble at all; there was no infection. You see 
 how cleanly it has healed." He placed his finger midway 
 down on Carey s back. 
 
 The interne leaned forward interestedly. 
 
 ". . . But this wound in the neck is annoying." 
 
 Emerson paused. Carey heard him rubbing the stiff 
 stubble of beard upon his chin. 
 
 "Get me a hypodermic and cocaine/ he said, decisively. 
 The interne stripped off the rubber gloves and left the 
 room. 
 
 Carey looked up at the Doctor apprehensively. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "Trim you up a bit." Emerson smiled encouragingly. 
 Carey shuddered and sank his head into the hot pillow. 
 
 He kept his eyes closed while there prevailed about 
 him a faint murmur of preparation. A bit of cotton satu 
 rated in alcohol was rubbed gently along the surface of 
 the skin surrounding the wound in his neck, and then 
 came the quick, biting thrust of the hypodermic needle. 
 Again and again the needle was thrust home, but, after 
 the third or fourth incision, he experienced no sensation. 
 
 Determinedly he kept his eyes closed, reassuring him 
 self that the cocaine would neutralise further pain. The 
 surgeon and his assistant puttered with sterilised instru 
 ments, gauze sponges and basins. 
 
 Suddenly a scream of agony burst from between 
 Carey s tightly shut lips. Emerson, with a pair of surgical 
 scissors, had begun to trim the edges of the wound, with 
 as calm deliberation as he might have enlarged a hole in a 
 sheet of newspaper. To Carey it was merciless, outrage 
 ously cruel. The shears seemed gigantic, its blades enor 
 mous. The cocaine had no effect at all ! Ten weeks of 
 pain and fever had robbed him of any power of control. 
 Incoherently he sobbed aloud his entreaties to the Doctor. 
 
THE AMATEUR 313 
 
 Snip, snip went the scissors. Carey could feel the blood 
 running down his shoulder and back, and could feel the 
 pressure of the small, pickle-shaped basin as the interne 
 held it firmly against his side to catch the flow. 
 
 Snip! Snip! 
 
 "There, my boy, I guess that hurt a little," Emerson 
 said kindly, patting Carey s head. "We ll have you about 
 again, now, in short order. You re doing nicely. You ve 
 got both your arms still and two sound lungs; you ve 
 no kick coming." 
 
 Carey lay sobbing, his face buried deep in the pillow 
 wet with saliva and tears. Deftly Emerson bandaged 
 him, comfortably, snugly. Slowly, by unappreciable de 
 grees, the agony of the pain receded. 
 
 The surgeon left ; the interne followed ; Sister Claudia s 
 gentle hand smoothed his hair and presently she brought 
 him some chicken broth, which she knew he liked. But 
 he could not touch it. He still quivered with the agony 
 he had endured; he was too weak to make any effort to 
 regain his self-control. His body had been outraged 
 by pain. He was no more than a quivering organism. 
 
 Day followed day; night followed night; week fol 
 lowed week. Daily the wound was dressed, daily he 
 endured the pain of that operation. An unending succes 
 sion of unrelated events carried him, dully, listlessly, from 
 hour to hour. After the fever was checked, there had 
 been a time when Carey began to anticipate the pleasure 
 of being well again. Long ago this had passed. He was 
 beaten down, down, down, until he was bereft of any 
 wish beyond the desire not to be hurt. Even the food he 
 was permitted to eat lost its interest. He became an 
 animal in whom all emotion, all wants, all instincts were 
 dead, except this one dominating fear. Constantly the 
 
3 i4 THE AMATEUR 
 
 bed sores galled him. He could lie either upon his left 
 side or flat upon his back. These were the only positions 
 he might assume. The inflated rubber rings Sister 
 Claudia was forever adjusting beneath his hip and knee, 
 while they relieved the immediate pressure of his weight, 
 were hot and uncomfortable. They could be endured 
 for only a short time. 
 
 Doctor Floherty dropped in to visit him every two or 
 three days. At first he had come every day; but Carey 
 was very ill then, with a mounting fever, delirious at 
 times, insensible to everything about him. As conscious 
 ness returned, something, vaguely connected in his mind 
 with Doctor Floherty, made his visits irritating and un 
 welcome. There had been an exhausting interview with 
 a man from the Police Department soon after he came to 
 the hospital. This individual kept asking him questions, 
 repeating the same inquiry over and over, while a tall, 
 black, thin person wrote down in a book whatever he an 
 swered. Then followed the period of the fever, a long 
 succession of whirling flights, unexpected surging sensa 
 tions and dizzying downward dips, like experiences on a 
 scenic railway. There had come a night when, with 
 wide staring eyes, the vapour that befogged his mind 
 cleared, and he saw Sister Claudia sprinkling drops of 
 water from her finger tips upon the bed. As he gazed 
 at her, she caught his eye and, recognising the saneness 
 that was there, came and sat by his pillow, smoothing 
 back his hair with her tender, rough-skinned hand. She 
 bent over him. 
 
 "Carey," she asked, "are you a Catholic? Can you 
 hear me?" 
 
 Carey regarded her fixedly. 
 
 "Am I going to die, Sister?" he whispered. A com 
 forting feeling of resignation filled his heart. It wouldn t 
 
THE AMATEUR 315 
 
 be bad to die. Death was a friendly thing; it would be 
 welcome rather than otherwise. There would be a few, 
 possibly, who would feel sorry to hear about it. 
 
 "We are all in God s hands, whatever is His will. He 
 may take you to His peace and to His home. . . ." 
 
 That was it, peace ; that was what he wanted, peace. 
 To be free from the body that held him, bound him, en 
 cased him! 
 
 At that time there had been no pain. It was only after 
 the fever burnt itself out that he began to suffer. The 
 time came when he wished with all the strength of his 
 racked and wasted body that he had died that night. 
 There followed a period when he ceased to protest, when 
 he lay doggedly enduring his suffering. He prayed only 
 to be let alone, to be tortured no more. 
 
 Recollections of his life, his work, his friends, Myra, 
 Springer, Jerry Hart, were wiped from his mind as 
 cleanly as a child sponges a slate. It was Floherty s 
 solicitous face at the door, at the bedside, bending over 
 him, that vaguely suggested them to him, troublesomely, 
 unpleasantly. He shrank from the irksome task of re 
 membering again; he dreaded what might happen when 
 the past was recalled. 
 
 The weather grew hot, the room stifling, the summer 
 shut down relentlessly upon a sweltering city. Carey, 
 stretched flat upon his back, felt the drops of perspira 
 tion that formed upon his chest trickle down the sides 
 of his body. Sister Claudia laid ice compresses on his 
 head, and sat beside him fanning his burning face for 
 long intervals. 
 
 It was during a blistering morning that predicted an 
 afternoon of intense discomfort that Sister Paul, who 
 was in charge of St. Jerome s hall, entered Carey s room 
 
316 THE AMATEUR 
 
 and took his hand affectionately between her two cool, 
 capable ones. 
 
 "Want to see any friends ?" she asked, her eyes twink 
 ling through their half -shut lids. Her expression was al 
 ways one of amused interest. She appeared to read hu 
 man nature as clearly as a printed page. 
 
 Carey s answer was a slow contraction of the brows. 
 Sister Paul patted his hand reassuringly. 
 
 "I know, I know," she said. "I ve turned them away 
 before, all of them. Doctor Emerson gave orders you 
 were to see no one, but that was when you first came, in 
 March. He was speaking to me about you yesterday ; he 
 doesn t like your listlessness, the way you re inclined to 
 lie here, day by day, and make no effort to rouse your 
 self. You re getting well; the wound in your neck is 
 healing slowly but satisfactorily; you would soon cure 
 the bed sores if you sat up awhile. Now I m going to let 
 your friend come up and see you, just for a few minutes. 
 He s been here every day for nearly a month." 
 
 Carey shut his eyes in resignation. He was too un 
 utterably weak to combat this strong, determined woman. 
 He didn t care if she admitted a regiment of people. Pres 
 ently there was a careful knock at the door, and Carey 
 opened his eyes to see the old, familiar features of Joe 
 Downer. 
 
 His first sensation was a feeling of intense annoyance. 
 But, as he turned his head in irritation toward the wall, 
 instinctively he stretched out a long, bony hand to 
 ward his old friend. Neither spoke. Joe sat down be 
 side the bed, took Carey s hand in his, and so they re 
 mained for several minutes. Carey resolutely kept his 
 head turned away. Here at last was come what he had 
 unconsciously been fearing : the meddling outside world ; 
 now was the time when disagreeable and distressing 
 
THE AMATEUR 317 
 
 things once more must be faced and decided. He felt 
 himself too helplessly weak and exhausted to meet the 
 ordeal. 
 
 Tears dropping upon his hand presently apprised him 
 that Joe was crying. He had never seen Joe cry; the 
 idea distressed him. He turned to look at him. His 
 friend had covered his eyes with one hand while he 
 clung to Carey s with the other. 
 
 "What the hell, Joe!" Carey s exclamation was little 
 more than a whisper. Joe s head sank lower. Carey 
 pressed his hand. Dimly he began to realise that only 
 the most poignant emotion could move Joe like this. 
 
 "What s the matter, Joe?" he demanded, perplexed. 
 
 "You look ..." 
 
 Swiftly Joe reached for his handkerchief, loosening 
 Carey s hand. Carey raised it to his own face, wonder 
 ing and troubled. Not until the moment of contact did 
 he realise that the hair upon his face had grown into a 
 long, ragged, yellow beard. Subconsciously he saw his 
 face, gaunt, white and haggard, the tangled growth 
 surrounding it like yellow seaweed. 
 
 "I haven t seen you, Carey, for nearly two months," 
 Joe said brokenly. 
 
 "Two months!" Carey repeated, still feeling annoyed 
 and puzzled. 
 
 "They let me come once or twice while you were a bit 
 out of your head ; then I had to go home again for a few 
 days." 
 
 It was too perplexing. Carey shut his tired eyes. He 
 felt he ought to ask Joe how his mother was, although 
 he was entirely aware she was dead. 
 
 There was a welcome interruption; Sister Claudia 
 re-entered the room, and Joe rose to go, pressing Carey s 
 limp and unresponsive hand as he said good-bye. 
 
3 i8 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "I can come to-morrow, Sister? 5 Carey heard him 
 asking. 
 
 "You ll have to speak to Sister Paul/ she replied 
 sweetly. 
 
 Carey devoutly hoped permission would be refused. 
 
 Slowly Carey s inert brain was stimulated back into 
 activity. It was a long, tiring process, carefully to be 
 gauged and checked by Sister Paul s vigilant supervision. 
 At times, when the spur of suggestion urged his return 
 ing consciousness too sharply, he would be left to him 
 self for two or three days. At others, Joe would sit 
 silently beside him, briefly answering his infrequent ques 
 tions. 
 
 Doctor Floherty came to see him, but his visits were 
 brief; he rarely stayed long enough to sit down. Carey, 
 however, found the opportunity to thank him for his effec 
 tive care on the night of the shooting. He wondered what 
 would have become of him if it had not been for the doc 
 tor s presence and his capable management of the situa 
 tion. From him he learned that old Blanchard was in 
 the Tombs, and his trial for attempted murder would be 
 postponed until Carey was quite well again. 
 
 One day they put into his hands half a dozen of the 
 letters that had accumulated during his illness. En 
 velopes bearing in their upper left-hand corner the im 
 print of business concerns had been carefully sifted out. 
 They allowed him to read those only of a personal, 
 friendly character. Among these he found one from 
 Jane Boardman. It was a simple, unaffected note of 
 sympathy. She had read the account of the shooting in 
 the papers and had learned that Carey had been taken 
 to St. Vincent s Hospital. In response to her telephoned 
 inquiries, she had been told he had a good chance for 
 
THE AMATEUR 319 
 
 recovery, and she hoped the few flowers she was sending 
 would help cheer his convalescence. She remained ever 
 sincerely his friend, Jane Boardman. The note was dated 
 late in March ; it was the middle of July when Carey was 
 able to read it. 
 
 It was this brief letter on its diminutive-sized note 
 paper that did more to rend the curtain of fog that 
 obliterated the past from Carey s recollection than any 
 stimulation that either Joe or Sister Paul had so far 
 dared to try. He thrust it beneath his pillow and asked 
 Sister Claudia to bring the rest of his mail. A great 
 many letters had arrived, she explained, but Mr. Downer 
 had these in keeping. On the following day, when Joe 
 paid his customary visit, Carey demanded them from him. 
 Most of them Downer had opened and answered. There 
 were only a few that were not of a business nature. 
 Springer, and even Cecilia, had written several times; 
 both had called at the hospital, but had not been per 
 mitted to see him. Old Mrs. Harrison, who had attended 
 his mother during her last illness, had written him; but 
 that was all. There was not a line nor a message from 
 Myra, nor from any one else. 
 
 Fragment by fragment he pieced his life together. As 
 his vision cleared and memory returned, the picture he 
 came gradually to view was not a pleasant one. Perhaps 
 it was just as well that the process by which his mind 
 was able to recall the past was a slow one. As Sister 
 Claudia sat in her chair by the window reading serenely 
 from her little prayer book, she was often startled by 
 hearing Carey suddenly groan aloud. Always she rose 
 and bent over him, brushing his long hair from his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Pain?" she would ask solicitously. 
 
 "Pain of mind," Carey would answer brokenly. 
 
3 2o THE AMATEUR 
 
 Like the swinging of a pendulum, Carey s disorgan 
 ised brain carried him from one extreme to another. 
 One day, Father Bulotti, from the Church of St. Francis 
 Xavier, came to see him. Sister Claudia suggested the 
 visit, and Carey welcomed the idea. Blunderingly, halt 
 ingly, Carey made a full confession of his sins to the 
 grey-haired Jesuit. A more clever priest would have 
 swung Carey to Catholicism. Father Bulotti would prom 
 ise absolution only upon a profession of faith. Carey s 
 soul cried out for sympathy; he was in no condition to 
 wrestle with dogmas or to join in arguments by which 
 Father Bulotti assured him his religious, doubts would be 
 cleared away. With the priest s departure, Carey lapsed 
 into melancholia. All day he would lie staring vacantly 
 upward, writhing in spirit, as some recollection of his old 
 life came back to him. Over and over the same ground 
 his mind travelled, accepting, with a slowly shaking head 
 and shut lips at each painful memory, additional evi 
 dence that confirmed the picture of his life of debased 
 profligacy. 
 
 Soon after Joe s coming, he had dully agreed to his 
 friend s suggestion and a day or two later signed a power- 
 of -attorney by which Joe was empowered to pay his 
 debts and straighten out his affairs. After his mind 
 began to clear, relief came in a welcoming rush when he 
 discovered that this had been done and that the tangle 
 of his accounts and his obligations were being properly 
 managed. 
 
 He and Joe had many talks. Every afternoon, the 
 latter would arrive and, for an hour or more, sit rocking 
 quietly beside the bed. At first there were long silences 
 between them, Joe waiting patiently for Carey s mind to 
 adjust itself. Gradually their old, intimate relationship 
 returned; there were no reticences, no withheld confi- 
 
THE AMATEUR 321 
 
 dences, no secrets. Perhaps never in their lives were they 
 so close to one another. 
 
 It was the tenth of August when Carey, with Joe s arm 
 about him, slowly went down the stone steps of the hos 
 pital and climbed into the waiting taxi-cab. As they 
 drove through the streets, Carey gazed out into the bril 
 liant sunshine and beheld, as it were, a different world. 
 It was as if some one had snatched away the coloured 
 glass through which he had looked, before that day when 
 i he was carried upon a stretcher into St. Vincent s Hos- 
 ! pital. Everything appeared new and strange to him ; 
 I everything seemed dazzling and bright. Most of all was he 
 t interested in the strong delineation of the faces of the peo- 
 I pie he saw passing rapidly by in the street. Each ex 
 pressed the effect of emotions, like the surface of a rock 
 that is changed by dropping water. It struck him as curi 
 ous that they should all have eyes and noses and mouths. 
 The human physiognomy was, after all, a hideous thing, 
 with its organs functioning where all might see. There 
 was no modesty in it. The human face was illy devised. 
 Each of the people he gazed out upon was hurrying by, 
 intent to fulfil a purpose, a petty, trivial purpose, which, 
 after all, mattered so little. They all appeared ridiculous 
 to him, running about like aimless bugs. He had touched 
 Death s finger tips across the threshold of Life. One 
 glimpse of that stern, grim visage had swept the cobwebs, 
 the murk and dirt from before his eyes, and he was able 
 to see now, while the poor fools he watched from the 
 cab s window ran about in blind circles. The buildings 
 by which he once had been thrilled, that had impressed 
 him when first he came to the city as evidences of achieve 
 ment, of romance, of power, now were excrescences, the 
 puny monuments of pigmy creatures that could be swept 
 
322 THE AMATEUR 
 
 away in the winking of an eye by one manifestation of 
 Nature. 
 
 There was no monster here, to be feared and dreaded 
 and conquered. Where was that which had filled his 
 heart and brain with terror the day he stood on the Chris 
 topher Street ferry so long ago, and watched lying flat 
 and crouching, a twinkle with a myriad of lights ? There 
 was no such thing. It existed only in his fancy, a figment 
 of his brain. He had come face to face with a more 
 terrifying monster, had been on intimate terms with 
 him for a long time, and, terrifying though he might be, 
 Carey had felt no fear or distrust. 
 
 The taxi slowed down and stopped in front of the 
 Fifty-ninth Street studio. Trembling from the weakness 
 the exertion cost him, Carey got out and slowly made 
 his way upon Joe s arm to the elevator within, that shot 
 him up to his own floor. Naka opened the door, smiling, 
 sucking his breath in through his teeth, bowing energet 
 ically. 
 
 Carey gazed about. The spectre of his old life rose 
 up before him, greeting him mockingly. The subtle 
 perfume that Myra affected seemed still to hang in the 
 air. It nauseated him. He turned to Joe, shuddering. 
 
 "Not here not here, Joe," he muttered. 
 
 Upstairs, Naka swiftly stripped off his bagging, un 
 familiar clothes, and presently he sank luxuriously into 
 the bed he had not known for five months. 
 
 The period of readjustment, the time it took before his 
 full strength returned, was longer than he anticipated. 
 Every other day he was obliged to report to Doctor Emer 
 son s office for a fresh dressing. The wound in his shoul 
 der was slowly healing, but there would always be a 
 depression, the size of an egg, where it had been. He 
 
THE AMATEUR 323 
 
 was weak and listless; his strength coquetted with him 
 like a flirting school girl. The weather was warm, and 
 the radiance of the sunshine upon his back was grati 
 fying and pleasant. Carey liked to walk out in the Park 
 with Joe, and sit in some sunny spot and watch the stream 
 of nurse maids and carriages, the fretting babies, the 
 scampering, clamorous children, pass by. His -custom 
 ary figure, his pleasant, friendly smile, became a familiar 
 sight. Several of the children made friends with him; 
 even some of the nurse maids favoured him with a re 
 spectful "Good day, sir." 
 
 Springer came to see him one morning. Carey had 
 written a feeble note, as soon as he was able, and Springer 
 had responded immediately by taking an early train for 
 the city the following morning. Carey could see the 
 effect of his own changed face and wasted figure in his 
 eyes. He felt that he had indeed changed, both inside and 
 out. His long period of suffering had left its mark 
 upon him; he looked older; the bloom of youth, that had 
 lingered with him, was gone forever. 
 
 Springer was full of news, of explanations for what, he 
 feared, had seemed neglect, of affectionate assurances. 
 Repeated calls at the hospital had been invariably met by 
 firm refusals to allow any one to see Carey. Both of them 
 had written. Carey had surely received the letters ? Re 
 cently he had been excessively busy making five hundred 
 pen-and-ink sketches for a text book, and Celia well, 
 Celia wasn t well but, Carey might as well know 
 there was a baby expected in December! Springer 
 grinned, half sheepishly, half proudly, as he conveyed the 
 news ; but to Carey it seemed both splendid and affecting 
 that Springer was to become a father, was to have a 
 child of his own. 
 
 Carey must come to live with them in Leonia until he 
 
324 THE AMATEUR 
 
 was strong again. Celia was wild to have him, had made 
 Springer promise not to come back without him. It was 
 pleasant to recognise the note of sincerity and affection 
 in his friend s voice. But Carey shook his head; there 
 was Joe and his frequent visits to the doctor. Perhaps, 
 in two or three weeks, it might be managed. Joe had 
 long overstayed the time of his visit and had recently 
 spoken of going home before his own little business went 
 altogether to pieces; Emerson would discharge him for 
 good after a few more visits. They parted with the 
 understanding that Carey should move over to Leonia 
 on the first of October. 
 
 On the eve of Joe s departure, Carey wrote him a 
 cheque for three hundred dollars, plus the four years* 
 interest that had accrued since it was borrowed. He had 
 resolved to let this wait no longer. He cut Joe s pro 
 testations short, for he felt his own unforgivable negli 
 gence in the matter, his ingratitude, his utter failure to 
 appreciate a devotion so loyal and unselfish. The sum 
 had been borrowed from Joe s meagre savings, upon the 
 clearly understood agreement that it was to be repaid as 
 soon as Carey was upon his feet. He had squandered 
 almost as much during the past year in a single night s 
 entertainment. 
 
 Carey bought a fine, solid gold-cased watch and chain 
 and slipped both into Joe s pocket as they stood by the 
 guard, examining tickets, in the noisy station. He was 
 not to open the package until he was in the train. 
 
 Perhaps the strongest emotion Carey had ever ex 
 perienced in a human relationship came to him as he 
 wrung Joe s hand in farewell. At the moment, nothing 
 that had ever come into his life seemed comparable with 
 this fine, strong, loyal devotion. The stress of life, new 
 influences, the various tides that swept them hither and 
 
THE AMATEUR 325 
 
 thither in the sea of their individual experiences, had left 
 it unchanged, supreme, steadfast. Here was friendship, 
 
 -unselfish, unexacting friendship, demanding no recog 
 nition, no reward, no return, seeking only to serve. 
 
 One other resolution that he had made during the long 
 period of his convalescence at the hospital he put into 
 execution immediately after Joe s departure. It was an 
 order for a little stone at the Mt. Kisco Cemetery where 
 his father was buried. He spent the better part of a 
 day there, speculating upon his parents unfortunate 
 marriage, upon their unsuitableness for one another, and 
 upon himself, his own character and nature that was the 
 result of their union. He wondered what manner of man 
 his father really had been; he would have liked to have 
 talked to him. He was embarrassed and made painfully 
 self-conscious by the glances of a group of women in 
 heavy mourning who watched him as he awkwardly ar 
 ranged the flowers he had brought with him in the iron, 
 cone-shaped cups at the head and foot of the grave. 
 
 The effort of carrying his suitcase at intervals on the 
 journey to Leonia dispelled any illusions Carey might 
 have had about his restored strength. He was trembling, 
 and a fine perspiration broke out upon him as he set the 
 bag down in front of the Springer gate and rested against 
 the high wooden post on which it swung. Springer came 
 hurrying down the brick walk, effusive in his greeting, 
 catching up the offending luggage and taking Carey s 
 arm as they climbed the slight grade toward the house. 
 Presently Carey lay comfortably in a long wicker chair, 
 with pillows at his head and back, while Cecilia sat beside 
 him expressing her solicitude, and Springer fetched a 
 glass of water. 
 
 The following weeks were full of delightful relaxa- 
 
326 THE AMATEUR 
 
 tion, pleasant comfort, and the first real happiness Carey 
 had known for a long time. In the morning, it was nine, 
 and sometimes later, before he awoke* The sunlight 
 flooded the room and there was the song of birds just 
 outside the open window. As he leisurely dressed in 
 his brown army shirt and soft flannels, he could hear the 
 tinkle of the Japanese wind-bells that dangled from the 
 roof of the porch and stirred musically with the morning 
 breeze. Always he found a little table, covered with a 
 white cloth and arrayed with sparkling silver and glass 
 ware, waiting for him by the porch railing, the morning 
 paper neatly folded by his plate. Cecilia invariably met 
 him at the open front door, a steaming coffee-pot in one 
 hand, a plate of buttered toast in the other. Never were 
 breakfasts more thoroughly enjoyed, never was coffee 
 more deliciously made. It was pleasant to sit idly read 
 ing the morning news, smoking cigarettes that were now 
 beginning to be enjoyed again, and feel the reviving sun, 
 while the wind-bells overhead maintained their faint 
 tinkle, and Cecilia s slow-moving, ample figure passed in 
 and out of the house, setting it to rights, telephoning her 
 orders for the day to the grocer and butcher. There was 
 always a pleasant hour before luncheon when she brought 
 her sewing out and sat beside him, talked of herself and 
 Springer and their plans. Carey thoroughly enjoyed 
 these moments, nor did he ever find her simple narra 
 tives and comments lacking in interest. She seemed to 
 him to have grown into a beautiful woman ; the rotundity 
 of her face and figure became her; it was the flowering 
 of the rose : benign, gracious, charming. Particularly did 
 her charm appeal to him when, with a slightly heightened 
 colour, she held up for his inspection the tiny flannel gar 
 ment she was busy feather-stitching. 
 
 From the lower end of the garden, where the studio 
 
THE AMATEUR 327 
 
 was situated, Springer s voice, ringing out some idle, 
 lappy song, occasionally reached them. Carey was moved 
 at such moments with some curious pang, some poignant 
 egret or longing that he could not understand. 
 
 In the afternoon, the three always went for a long 
 valk, kicking before them the leaves that had begun to 
 fall and were thick upon their path. In front of certain 
 lomes which strung themselves along the roadway the 
 umbled dead foliage had been raked into great piles; 
 ome of these were on fire, a gardener and a boy or two 
 vatching the conflagration. Veils of smoke drifted in 
 and out among the trees, leisurely, gracefully, vagrantly. 
 The air was heavy with pungent fragrance. There was a 
 [uaint tea house nearly two miles along the road toward 
 Tenafly, that always provided a pleasant destination. An 
 old couple ran the place, a motherly, wrinkled old woman 
 and her husband, who had once been a sailor. His part in 
 the establishment seemed to be that of landscape architect 
 and tender-of-cows. He herded the two animals they 
 owned to their pasture in the morning, and herded them 
 back to the tiny barn in the evening. Between times he 
 puttered about the place, erecting rustic fences, rustic 
 gates, rustic seats and rustic arbours. He was forever 
 tinkering with saw and hammer. His wife provided the 
 tea and marvellously baked bread and biscuits. Her unin 
 terrupted flow of words was in marked contrast to her 
 life-partner s never broken silence. 
 
 Springer, Cecilia and Carey idled here every after 
 noon for an hour or more. There was a view of the 
 river from the garden, and it was delicious to sprawl on 
 the warm, grassy earth and watch the steamers and tugs 
 and white patches of the sail boats plying up and down 
 so far below. 
 
 The walk home was perhaps the most agreeable part of 
 
328 THE AMATEUR 
 
 the daily excursion. Carey was content to listen to the 
 animated talk of the other two. Their absorbing love 
 for one another had lost all the irritation it had once held 
 for him. They included him in it ; never once did he feel 
 conscious that he was an interloper; their embraces, the 
 demonstrations of their affection, were always restrained 
 and yet unaffected and natural. A new kind of love for 
 them both germinated in Carey s heart. Invariably, how 
 ever, he experienced an acute sense of shame whenever 
 he recalled the irritation and annoyance he had felt when 
 Springer had tried to warn him, out of his wider experi 
 ence, that the time would come when he would bitterly 
 regret the looseness of his life. 
 
 After dinner, Cecilia would play to them. Springer 
 generally had a magazine before him and pulled inter 
 mittently at his pipe; but Carey was satisfied to listen. 
 She had developed her music and had now a finished tech 
 nique and a fine expression. Carey felt the difference, 
 although he was unable to explain it. In after years, he 
 never heard the Moonlight Sonata without recalling the 
 mellow radiance of the dimly-lit room, with its two silk- 
 shaded lamps; the half -recumbent form of Springer 
 slowly turning the pages of his magazine, while the lamp 
 above him threw a brilliant high-light upon one side of 
 his broad forehead; the swaying, graceful figure of Ce 
 cilia, and the occasional flash of her white hands ; while, 
 through the window, came the sustained stridulating of 
 the crickets and frogs, and the warm night air carried the 
 fragrance of all the blended scents of Autumn. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 OLD BLANCHARD had died. Doctor Floherty 
 brought him the news one morning after Carey s re 
 turn to the city. There had always been a doubt as to the 
 old man s sanity in the minds of the officials of the Tombs. 
 At times, Floherty had been informed, he railed against 
 Carey as the cause of his daughter s dishonour and as a 
 despoiler of women s virtue; at others he brokenly ac 
 knowledged the injustice of his accusation. A severe cold 
 had suddenly developed into pneumonia, a few weeks 
 before, and he had been removed to Bellevue, where he 
 had lingered a fortnight longer. Floherty went to see 
 him, but the old man was too far gone to recognise him. 
 
 His death was a great relief to Carey, who had received 
 several intimations that the District Attorney intended to 
 prosecute as soon as he was able to appear. Carey had 
 never felt any sense of injustice when he thought of the 
 old man who had attempted his life. He considered he 
 had deserved some kind of terrible punishment, even 
 though he was not actually responsible for the particular 
 crime of which Anna s father believed him guilty. 
 
 He faced his new life delivered from this troublesome 
 complication. He returned to New York with the half- 
 formed resolution that he would go over to Paris for a 
 year. The thought of taking up his old work again was 
 extremely distasteful to him ; he had no ambition to con- 
 
330 
 
 THE AMATEUR 
 
 tinue to make his pretty-girl heads. He was through 
 with that kind of unworthy and shoddy work. Always 
 he recalled Charles Hanna Simpson s advice and the elo 
 quent motion of his finger across his throat, the night 
 they had met before the bar in Sherry s cafe. It would 
 be better to do that than go back to making heads. 
 
 But Carey found that the money he had so easily made, 
 that at one time had appeared as a five-figure credit bal 
 ance in his cheque book, was gone. Joe had several times 
 broached the subject of his finances to him, but Carey 
 had always stopped him with : 
 
 "Please please, Joe. Don t worry me about it. Do 
 as you think best. There are the two cars ; sell em both. 
 I shall never want to ride in them again." 
 
 Joe had sold them. He informed Carey of the fact 
 one day, and Carey had dully nodded. The only sensa 
 tion he had had at the time was one of complacent ap 
 proval. Now, to find himself poor again was rather a 
 satisfaction than otherwise. Joe had cleared off what he 
 owed with what the cars had brought. The balance in the 
 bank would take care of the rent of the Fifty-ninth Street 
 studio for the remainder of the lease, another two 
 months, and pay the doctor s and the hospital bill. 
 After that there would be less than two hundred dollars. 
 
 Carey closed the Fifty-ninth Street apartment and 
 moved back to his old quarters in The Rembrandt Studios. 
 He couldn t work in the gilded surroundings that re 
 minded him always of his revels and debauches. But it 
 was the ghost of his former self he encountered as he 
 opened the door of his old room, and left and entered the 
 rambling building. He had been happier there than at 
 any other time in his life. Success, it had seemed 
 worth while then had come knocking at his door; 
 Springer, gay, fun-loving, rioting Springer, had lived 
 
THE AMATEUR 331 
 
 down the hall. Life was worth living in those days; 
 each morning when he had awakened, he had wondered 
 what new and pleasant thing would come to make his 
 existence brighter, more interesting. 
 
 A dull monotony surrounded him now. No one spoke 
 to him ; the men and women he met in the halls failed to 
 notice him. The smells of cooking foods that filtered 
 through the various studio doors sickened him ; the laugh 
 ter and high voices within sounded blatant and shrill; 
 musicians at their practising thumped their tin-panny 
 pianos, and the vocalists screamed their arpeggios tire 
 lessly. It was all in harmony with his mood. It irri 
 tated him; but he was like a man consumed with fierce 
 hate and anger, who welcomes the onslaught of the wind 
 and rain as he strides in the teeth of a furious storm. 
 
 One day, with what samples of his old work he could 
 gather together in his portfolio, he started out once more 
 to make the rounds of the magazine offices and adver 
 tising agencies. But his more recent notoriety had 
 eclipsed his previous fame. Men came out of their offices 
 and into the reception room, where he waited, to stare 
 at him. As he sat waiting beside a door that was opened 
 a few inches, he heard a voice say : 
 
 "That man, Carey Williams, is outside ; you remember 
 the feller who drew so many pretty-girl heads awhile ago 
 and then got shot up for ruining some one s daughter? 
 Every one was crazy about his stuff last winter. He s 
 round here wanting work again. Take a look at him." 
 
 The speaker opened the door wide and smiled his pro 
 fessional greeting, ran through the portfolio quickly 
 while the man whom he had addressed presently entered 
 by another door, paused a moment, walked round them, 
 and passed out on the other side. 
 
 It did not annoy or embarrass Carey as it once would 
 
332 THE AMATEUR 
 
 have done. He smiled quietly to himself and picked up 
 his portfolio with a murmured "Thank you," as the Art 
 Editor commenced to recite the various reasons why, just 
 at that particular time, it was not possible to give him a 
 story to illustrate. 
 
 Grimly, determinedly, he went the rounds. In such 
 places where the story connected with him was not 
 known, or where it failed to be associated with him, he 
 awakened even less interest. The work he showed was 
 rubbed and dirty; it no longer had the appearance of 
 being fresh. Ben Mercy was out, but Sherman received 
 him cordially enough. He referred at once to the affair, 
 inquiring how long he had been laid up in the hospital, 
 and expressing his concern when informed. Carey told 
 him the whole story, told it between innumerable inter 
 ruptions. When he finished it, he didn t know whether 
 Sherman was convinced or not. He didn t much care. He 
 wanted work, and Sherman knew what he could do. A 
 commission had been promised him two years ago. 
 
 There wasn t a manuscript in the office, Sherman told 
 him. He was sorry. He remembered having promised 
 Carey a story; but then his wonderful popularity had 
 come along, and no one wanted any ordinary work from 
 him. Sherman would look round, and, if anything came 
 along that he thought Carey could handle, he surely would 
 send it to him. 
 
 "I d hate to be obliged to go back to making pretty- 
 girl heads again," Carey said, half whimsically, half 
 earnestly. "I hope I ve put that kind of rotten work 
 behind me forever." 
 
 Sherman stroked his short, grizzled beard. 
 
 "Mason Edward Camp kind of broke in on your field, 
 didn t he?" he asked, reflectively. 
 
 "Yes," Carey answered, bitterly. "I told him, like a 
 
THE AMATEUR 333 
 
 fool, about the strawboard I used and how I mixed my 
 water colours one night." 
 
 "And he must have told everybody else," Sherman 
 said, wagging his head up and down. "They all trailed 
 after him; we had more girls heads with braided red 
 hair done on strawboard for a while than we could 
 shake a stick at. I guess that was while you were laid 
 up in the hospital. The idea became a drug on the mar 
 ket. Now it s The Merry Widow that our fickle town 
 has gone mad about. Since that new opera opened, you 
 find people talking of nothing else. New York seems 
 to be afflicted with one craze after another. I predict 
 we ll have Merry Widow hats, and Merry Widow 
 shoes, and Merry Widow clothes, just as your name 
 graced our apparel so short a time ago. We seem to have 
 caught the Merry Widow fever on the rebound from 
 the Carey Williams infection/ We ll be sick to death of 
 this waltz music in three months and ready for some new 
 fad. You ought to think up some new stunt." 
 
 "But I m tired of stunts, Mr. Sherman," Carey said 
 earnestly. "I want to succeed by conscientious work. 
 I foresee I m going to be handicapped by the false story 
 about that girl, which I can t explain to every one as I 
 have to you." 
 
 As he was speaking, little Jane Boardman entered the 
 office and placed some letters on Sherman s desk for his 
 signature. It was evident she had not recognised him, 
 as his back was toward the door. As she laid the mail 
 on Sherman s desk, she raised her eyes and saw him. 
 Carey was unable to return the quick bow before they 
 were lowered. It came over him suddenly, with a pang 
 of regret, that he had never acknowledged the friendly 
 letter she had written him or the flowers he had never 
 seen. She had been one of the few who had thought of 
 
334 THE AMATEUR 
 
 him and had refused to believe the newspaper stories 
 about the betrayal of his would-be murderer s daughter, 
 her old friend, Anna Blanchard. Hastily he tied the 
 strings of his portfolio and, saying good-bye to Sher 
 man, followed Jane out into the hall. But she had disap 
 peared into one of the many rooms on either side of the 
 long corridor. He turned and passed into the outer 
 office, pausing a moment by the telephone operator s desk. 
 It was the same girl who had befriended him the first day 
 he had called there. 
 
 "Will you tell Miss Boardman that Mr. Williams 
 would like to speak to her outside here in the waiting 
 room for just a moment? * 
 
 He bent toward the operator ingratiatingly. 
 
 "Why, certainly." 
 
 There was a rattle of plugs and tangled ropes, and 
 presently Carey heard her repeating his message. A 
 moment later the girl herself stood on the threshold of 
 the doorway, her head a little to one side, her hand on 
 the lintel, pausing a moment non-committally, before he 
 addressed her. 
 
 Carey stepped forward, holding out his hand. She 
 accepted it with the same reserved manner. 
 
 "Do you know I ve been out of the hospital just a few 
 days ?" Carey spoke impulsively. He didn t wait for her 
 answer. "The note and the flowers you sent me were 
 the nicest things that happened to me, during five months 
 of pain and misery. I was out of my head, delirious for 
 a number of weeks ; I never saw your flowers; the note I 
 was only permitted to read three months after it ar 
 rived. Every day I intended to write you. . . . But 
 I can t explain here. What time is it now ? How much 
 longer will you have to be here ? No, I ll tell you ; I ll 
 
THE AMATEUR 335 
 
 wait downstairs for you until you are through. I have 
 much I must talk over with you." 
 
 Jane shook her head, holding up her hands protest- 
 ingly, with an amused smile at his vehemence. 
 
 "I m afraid," she began, "Mr. Sherman will need me 
 for another hour, perhaps longer. I don t think you had 
 better wait." 
 
 Carey was aware the telephone operator was listening. 
 He glanced resentfully at her back. Jane followed his 
 eyes and he caught her smiling. With a quick motion 
 toward the street and am emphatic nod of his head, he 
 held out his hand again. 
 
 "I m sorry," he said. "Some other time, then. Good 
 night." 
 
 He opened the swing gate behind him, turning to catch 
 her eye again. With uplifted brows, he telegraphed his 
 interrogation, pausing an instant for her answer. But a 
 sweet, pleasant smile and a conventional nod of the head, 
 which might have meant anything, were all she vouch 
 safed. Nevertheless, he decided to wait. 
 
 It was nearly six o clock when he saw her leave the 
 elevator inside the brilliantly-lit foyer of the big office 
 building and make her way with other girls toward the 
 street entrance. He watched her turn down town and, 
 after she had walked half a block, he caught up with her. 
 
 "MissBoardman!" 
 
 She turned toward him, surprised and a little reproach 
 ful. 
 
 "You shouldn t have waited." 
 
 "That girl the operator was listening to what we 
 said. I really must have a chance to talk with you." 
 
 "The street is hardly the place," she answered pre 
 cisely ; but Carey thought he caught a tone of relenting in 
 her voice. 
 
336 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "Well, may I call . . ."he began tentatively. 
 
 I_I don t know," she faltered. "What is it?" 
 
 They fell into step together, both a trifle embarrassed. 
 Carey tried to tell her again of his appreciation of her 
 note and flowers. He was conscious that he was express 
 ing himself clumsily and that he hesitated awkwardly as 
 he strove for the right words. 
 
 "I heard you were dying," she interrupted. 
 
 "I came near it several times." 
 
 He began to explain how sick he had been, but it 
 seemed to him too obvious an appeal for her sympathy. 
 He stopped in confusion. 
 
 They had reached Union Square. Across its broad, 
 leafless area, the mighty army of home-goers poured, a 
 human river, hurrying toward its south-easterly end, 
 where the subway entrances were located and where 
 stood the gate to that seething, congested district beyond, 
 the Ghetto. It was like some gigantic grain hopper, with 
 the individual kernels bobbing and skipping about, but all 
 being sucked into the yawning mouth of the funnel at the 
 other end. Not one escaped. The river flowed on un- 
 brokenly, undeviatingly. It was like the flight of a peo 
 ple, the rout of an army. 
 
 Carey and Jane stood watching the spectacle silently 
 for some minutes ; then the girl turned to him, with hand 
 outstretched. 
 
 "This is my street," she said. "I live just a few doors 
 beyond Third Avenue. Good-night." 
 
 "But I m going to see you as far as the door," Carey 
 protested. 
 
 "It s not necessary," she pleaded. 
 
 "But I want to." 
 
 He walked beside her as she turned down Fifteenth 
 
THE AMATEUR 337 
 
 Street, and presently they stopped in front of a rather 
 dingy but brightly lit apartment house. 
 
 Carey held her hand a moment at the entrance. 
 
 "May I come to see you?" 
 
 "If you like/ Her serious face, suddenly illumined 
 by her smile, seemed, so Carey thought, both beautiful 
 and appealing. 
 
 "To-morrow night?" 
 
 "To-morrow?" She echoed his question, gazing up 
 ward thoughtfully, the smile still playing about the cor 
 ners of her mouth. "To-morrow," she repeated, "is Fri 
 day. Yes, 1 will be home." 
 
 She turned swiftly and stepped inside. 
 
 Through the glass door, Carey caught sight of a large, 
 heavily-shawled woman and the straw hood of a peram 
 bulator. He saw Jane speak to the woman and bend 
 over the baby carriage. Then abruptly she disappeared. 
 
 Carey laid in a supply of drawing materials the fol 
 lowing morning and began seriously to work again. 
 Walking back to the studio after leaving Jane Board- 
 man at her door, he decided that the time had come to 
 begin the reconstruction of his life. In another month 
 he would be twenty-seven; he was still young, and he 
 felt confident that hard work and right living would soon 
 eliminate the effect of the year or so of recklessness. 
 He said this a dozen times a day, to reassure himself 
 that it could be done. The thought most encouraging to 
 him, that gave him strength and confidence, that placed 
 the hope in his heart that it was possible for him to suc 
 ceed in this determination, if he but tried hard enough, 
 was the memory of the six months at home when he had 
 stedfastly remained by his mother s bedside, faithful to 
 that duty to the last. Six months was not so very long 
 
338 THE AMATEUR 
 
 a time, perhaps, but, to an eager boy as young as he was 
 then, it had been a test. At any rate, it was the only 
 test he had ever been put to in his life by which his 
 will power might be gauged. In addition, there was the 
 satisfying reflection that the old life no longer seemed 
 to possess any fascination for him; he had ceased to 
 crave excitement ; fast living, "going the pace" contained 
 no lure for him; the thought of Myra, memories they 
 must always share together, revolted him. 
 
 Carey was a little at a loss to understand just what was 
 the reason for this change he found in himself. Re 
 flecting upon the matter, he decided that his long period 
 of pain and suffering had actually purged his soul, ruth 
 lessly uprooting the evil within him. Now his natural 
 cleanliness of nature asserted itself. He was again as he 
 had been as a boy of ten, when he turned, offended and 
 sickened, from the corruption of his school companions. 
 
 If he could but remain so! Could retain the memory 
 of Death s aspect, with which he had grown so familiar! 
 If he could but remember always the way he had felt 
 when, with Death standing waiting for him, the things of 
 Life, human hopes and aspirations and preferences and 
 fears, had seemed so insignificant and of such small ac 
 count ! 
 
 He refused to delude himself by putting too much faith 
 in this distaste for sin. He recognised his own weakness ; 
 he knew the stealthy effect of the hand of Time, and its 
 easy manipulation of memories. Firmly, constantly, he 
 told himself he would hold before him this determination 
 to live decently and cleanly. 
 
 But Carey had a harder task before him than he an 
 ticipated. He found that it is one thing to live up 
 rightly, carried along on the wave-crest of prosperity; it 
 
THE AMATEUR 339 
 
 is another when the combers of adversity beat relentlessly 
 and persistently upon one s head. 
 
 Carey struggled desperately with his Art. Whatever 
 cunning his hand had once possessed seemed to have been 
 dissipated on his pretty-girl heads. It remained for him 
 to win it back. He reached this conclusion toward the 
 close of the first day on which he had begun seriously 
 to work again. He had telephoned for a model, and, 
 for three hours, forced himself to block in her figure in 
 various poses. The smartness, the precision his prelim 
 inary sketches had always possessed was gone. His old 
 weakness, the tightening up of his work, he knew he 
 should have to compel himself to correct, after he had 
 won again his old cleverness at laying in the figure. 
 
 It was a pleasant thought, after a day of intent ap 
 plication, to remember he was to see Jane Boardman 
 that evening. As he was dressing, adjusting his cravat 
 about his collar, it suddenly occurred to him to ask him 
 self if he was in love with her. He paused a moment, 
 his fingers arrested in their operation. Swiftly his mind 
 shifted to Springer and Cecilia and the supremely happy, 
 contented picture they presented. Jane and himself, 
 somewhere in the country? It was not an unpleasant 
 thought. But, however interesting the idea might ap 
 pear, he dismissed it. His life was too full, too compli 
 cated, he was too intent upon his own regeneration to 
 consider anything so serious as marriage. Besides, he 
 was "broke" now. It would be a long time before he 
 was on his feet again. 
 
 Flights of cold concrete steps, a succession of un- 
 painted iron railings, led him on and on, past one floor 
 after another. Apartment twenty-four seemed as inac 
 cessible, with the muscles of his legs aching, as it had 
 
340 
 
 THE AMATEUR 
 
 done when he first began to climb. Milk bottles, loaves 
 of bread, stood against the doors of the various apart 
 ments. Go-carts or baby buggies cluttered the landings. 
 Many of the doors were opened, disclosing congested 
 interiors, from which came the noise of running water 
 and washing dishes. Young girls and older women were 
 continually passing up and down the steep, narrow stair 
 case, obliging him to step aside and lift his hat as they 
 crowded by. A mingling of varied smells pervaded the 
 entire stair-well. 
 
 Apartment twenty- four appeared, as he reached the 
 door bearing that numeral, like the others below. Two 
 clean, empty milk bottles stood in front of the door, but 
 there was no baby carriage. 
 
 Jane herself answered his ring. He could see that she 
 was embarrassed at receiving him in her own home ; but 
 she was cordial. Carey hung his coat on the pegs of the 
 wooden rack in the dark hall and followed her, past 
 several closed doors, to a lighted room beyond. This 
 was evidently the dining room. A large, square table, 
 covered with a fringed red cloth, stood in its centre, upon 
 which an electric, coloured-glass drop-light threw a bril 
 liant radiance. A linen-covered couch, with a high roll 
 ing back, faced a tall walnut cupboard at one end of the 
 room. Between them, two windows, with drawn shades 
 and red rep curtains, were separated by an umbrella plant 
 upon a tall, iron stand, with legs of gilt scroll work. 
 
 Near the door, in a wheel chair, his feet wrapped in a 
 camel s hair shawl, sat a large-framed old man, with 
 long, flowing white hair and beard. A contrivance at 
 tached to the chair provided him with a table, and upon 
 this were arranged the cards of his solitaire. He gazed 
 intently at Carey, under his thick, white eyebrows, as the 
 caller entered the room. 
 
THE AMATEUR 341 
 
 "My father, Mr. Williams/ 
 
 Carey stepped forward and took the heavy hand in 
 his; but the old man gave him no word of greeting be 
 yond a nod of his benign white head. A door opened, 
 and a gentle-faced woman entered, whose hair gave the 
 impression of being equally snowy as the patriarch s. 
 But Carey, as he was presented, noticed that it was 
 streaked with pale yellow. She wore it parted in the 
 middle and coiled into a large bun at the back of the 
 neck. Her dress was a stiff watered silk, tarnished and 
 shiny in spots, but there was a touch of lace at the throat. 
 Mrs. Boardman possessed a certain gentle motherliness 
 that warmed Carey s heart at once. She had some letters 
 to write and was going to an early bed. She pressed 
 Carey s hand with quaint graciousness and bade him, in 
 an old-fashioned way, to "make himself at home!" 
 
 Carey and Jane sat down on the linen-covered sofa; 
 but, almost at once, their tentative attempt to begin their 
 conversation was interrupted by the entrance of other 
 members of the family. The dining-room, in which they 
 sat, and the adjoining kitchen were, evidently, the only 
 living rooms. The others in the apartment were needed 
 as bedrooms. Two boys, palpably twins, about twelve 
 years old, entered from the kitchen, where they had been 
 studying their lessons, and kissed their father good-night. 
 They still carried their books under their arms. They 
 were black-haired, black-eyed, neat-appearing lads, who 
 resembled Jane both in face and manner. 
 
 The last member of the family to be presented to Carey 
 was Jane s older brother, Horace. It was after nine 
 o clock when he came in from the street, tired and out 
 of breath from the hurried stair-climb. He had a pale 
 complexion and affected sideburns, which made him ap- 
 
342 
 
 THE AMATEUR 
 
 pear older than he was. Carey knew that he worked as 
 a compositor with the Methodist Book Concern. 
 
 "Over-time again to-night," he said wearily. "It s the 
 fourth night this week !" 
 
 Jane suggested a cup of coffee. It would take her but 
 a moment to make it, she urged. 
 
 Carey saw the brother s eyes shift in hesitation toward 
 him. It was not difficult to read what was passing in his 
 mind. 
 
 "I d like a cup myself," Carey volunteered, "if you 
 don t mind making it." 
 
 Jane jumped up jubilantly, and the three passed into 
 the kitchen. All of them felt freer out of the presence 
 of the taciturn, white-crowned monarch, who tirelessly 
 pursued his silent game of cards. 
 
 The kitchen was scrupulously clean. The linoleum- 
 covered floor, the white wood-work, the range, sink, and 
 even the walls, shone from excessive scrubbing. Carey 
 noticed that the usual row of stirring spoons, hand-mops, 
 strainers and egg-beaters, that hung above the sinks in 
 most kitchens, was missing here. There was not even 
 an inverted dishpan beneath the bright nickel faucets of 
 the sink, or a wet dish-cloth drying upon its broad, 
 wooden rim. There was an air of space, of comfort, of 
 neatness about the room. 
 
 He could not refrain from commenting upon it. 
 
 "We have to use this room so much," Jane said sim 
 ply, "that mother has to keep things put away. This is 
 the only room we have that gets any sun to speak of, and 
 father spends most of the day in here." 
 
 Carey and Horace both sat on the kitchen table, smok 
 ing, watching Jane as she produced and filled the coffee 
 pot, lit the gas stove, sliced bread, and adjusted the wire 
 contrivance over the hissing blue flame for the toast. 
 
THE AMATEUR 343 
 
 Condensed cream, sugar, and a roll of butter made their 
 appearance, and Carey and Horace had to find chairs 
 while the table was being set. Carey marvelled at the 
 girl s speed, her assurance, her deftness. Not once did 
 she make an unnecessary motion. 
 
 Presently they were all sitting about the table, drinking 
 what both men pronounced to be perfect coffee, and bit 
 ing into crisp, hot, buttered toast. It was very pleasant 
 and companionable, and Carey felt that he was enjoying 
 himself hugely. 
 
 Horace, a little later, said good-night, and Carey and 
 Jane settled down for a memorable talk. 
 
 At once their conversation reverted to Anna, and Jane 
 told him how she had consented to take a small class of 
 boys in St. George s Sunday School, and had first met 
 her there as a fellow teacher. 
 
 By some subtle intimation, the girl conveyed to him the 
 fact that she knew of Jerry Hart s part in the circum 
 stances that had culminated in Anna s suicide, and 
 frankly advanced the theory, which had never before oc 
 curred to him, that, in her opinion, Jerry had not been 
 wholly to blame. Gossip, implicating Carey as the one 
 responsible for her friend s tragic death, she had always 
 emphatically denied, resenting the outrageous injustice 
 of it. She confessed, rather naively, that she had been 
 twitted by her friends for this championship, particu 
 larly after he had made his great success. But she had 
 been glad she had taken his part, when the insane old 
 father had shot him down. At the time, she had been 
 greatly excited, for she feared Carey would die, and she 
 would be called in, perhaps, as a witness for the prose 
 cution. When she learned that he had a good chance to 
 recover, she had been so relieved that she sent the note 
 and the flowers. 
 
344 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Once more Carey tried to speak of his appreciation of 
 her thoughtful kindness. He wanted her to understand 
 what her words of sympathy had meant to him, coming 
 as they did at a psychological moment. Unconsciously 
 he found himself telling her of his days of suffering in 
 the hospital. They were still too recent to be described 
 without emotion which the girl saw he had no intention 
 of betraying. An expression of intense feeling, a sym 
 pathetic twitching of her face, brought him to an abrupt 
 stop and a hurried apology. He was ashamed to realise 
 how much he had let himself go. Somehow, no one else 
 had seemed to understand what he had endured, not even 
 Joe Downer, who had been with him from day to day. 
 
 He rose to go, surprised to find that it was past eleven. 
 In the dining room they found the white-haired giant still 
 intent upon his game. With the same cold dignity, he 
 bowed his magnificent head as Carey said good-night. 
 During the entire evening he had not spoken. 
 
 At the door of the apartment, Carey lingered a few 
 moments, loath to terminate the talk that had been so ab 
 sorbing, searching his mind for some plan to suggest an 
 other meeting. His evenings at The Rembrandt Studios 
 were inexpressibly lonely, and he foresaw that many of 
 them might be spent pleasantly in Jane s company. 
 
 "Do you suppose your mother would object to letting 
 you go to the theatre with me, some time?" he asked, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 She dropped her serious manner, but the air of co 
 quetry assumed was easily recognisable as a shield for 
 embarrassment. As there was no answer forthcoming, 
 Carey pressed his point. 
 
 "How about it ? I like better to go on Saturday nights 
 than at any other time of the week. How about to 
 morrow night? Have you seen The Merry Widow?" 
 
THE AMATEUR 345 
 
 She looked at him swiftly, non-committally. 
 
 "Then I ll get seats at the New Amsterdam," he said 
 decisively. "I ll come for you round seven- thirty ; and 
 tell your mother I ll take good care of you. Good-night !" 
 
 He held out his hand, smiling happily at the pleasant 
 prospect for the next evening. Jane placed her fingers in 
 his and their hands clung together for a brief moment. 
 A sudden thrill ran through Carey, and he saw a warm 
 flush rising in the girl s cheeks. A swift desire to draw 
 her to him and take her in his arms suddenly possessed 
 him. But, in that instant, she abruptly withdrew her 
 hand and stepped back into the doorway. 
 
 "Good-night," she whispered. Then, her face breaking 
 into the smile he found so charming, she added : 
 
 "To-morrow ... at seven-thirty." 
 
 There was a last glance and the door shut. 
 
 Carey ran happily downstairs. 
 
 She was a charming girl. He had never met one so 
 delightfully balanced. She was capable, serious, amus 
 ing, beautiful, an excellent office worker, a fine cook, the 
 delight of her family that was evident and a staunch, 
 loyal friend. 
 
 All the way home he walked the distance to The 
 Rembrandt Studios, for the night was clear and crisp, a 
 night for rapid walking he whistled merrily. Life did 
 not present such a dismal prospect after all. If he could 
 catch on with his work again, if he could master his Art 
 once, he might be very happy indeed, chumming about the 
 city with a companion so delightful. He paused in his 
 whistling a moment to smile happily to himself at the 
 possibilities of Coney Island in such company. They 
 would have some jolly excursions together. 
 
 A vision of her in her own home rose before him 
 the humble furnishings and crowded quarters ; her grim, 
 
346 THE AMATEUR 
 
 taciturn, crippled father always listening silently to what 
 others might be saying, always in the way; her gentle, 
 quiet, unostentatious mother; her journeyman brother; 
 the missing luxury of cream; the milk bottles at the door, 
 and the smelly, noisy apartment house. 
 
 "And not once did she apologise for anything!" Un 
 consciously he spoke aloud. "The little lady!" he said 
 admiringly. 
 
 Carey applied himself with more concentration to his 
 work than he had ever done before. He rose early in the 
 morning and was bending over his drawing board by 
 nine o clock. At twelve, he cooked himself some eggs 
 over the gas-burner in the kitchenette, brewed a pot of 
 tea, and by one o clock he was at work again, steadily 
 forcing his hand to go from one operation to another 
 until about four o clock, when the light began to fade. 
 He was weary then, fagged out both in mind and body, 
 and his couch generally provided a grateful spot for an 
 hour s relaxed sleep. 
 
 But his work aggravated him more and more each 
 day. He saw the things in his mind he wanted to draw ; 
 but his hand refused to execute them. In a measure, 
 his old ability rapidly to block in a subject returned to 
 him; as he hoped, this came with practice; but now his 
 drawing seemed weak and characterless ; it had no snap, 
 there was no continuity in its composition. Comparing 
 it with his earlier work, it appeared to him neither better 
 nor worse; rather, he tried to convince himself, his eyes 
 were opened now to the imperfections of his art, he could 
 see its faults, and there remained but to find a way to 
 rectify them. This, assuredly, must come with hard 
 work ; one was bound to accomplish big things with hard 
 work ! Grimly he persevered from day to day, finishing 
 
THE AMATEUR 347 
 
 one drawing and at once beginning another. The sheets 
 of the heavy board he used, turned face to the wall, grew 
 into cumbersome stacks that he was forever readjusting, 
 repiling, moving to other parts of the room. 
 
 The evenings and Sundays he spent with Jane Board- 
 man were very pleasant. Outside of his work, they sup 
 plied his only interest. She was most companionable and 
 always in buoyant spirits; but it was in the understand 
 ing sympathy she gave him that he found the greatest 
 satisfaction. Never did she fail to say the word that 
 conveyed to him the positive knowledge that she had 
 caught to a shade the meaning of his thought, or had 
 grasped to a nicety his need for an expression of that 
 sympathy he grew daily to depend upon more and more. 
 
 It was inevitable that this intimacy should lead Carey 
 to a declaration of love. He had often told girls he had 
 known girls with whom he had been intimate back 
 home that he loved them. When he had attended the 
 Art School he had always been in love with one girl or 
 another. Making love was an exciting business, but he 
 was far from considering himself as being really in love 
 with Jane. He loved her but he was not in love with 
 her. That kind of love meant marriage and he had not 
 the remotest idea of such a possibility. It had occurred 
 to him that day when he was dressing to make his first 
 call upon her and he had amused himself by allowing 
 his imagination to dwell upon it, but he had never con 
 templated the matter for a moment seriously. It would 
 interfere with his Art, and his profession was the thing 
 nearest and dearest to him. He loved little Jane Board- 
 man more than any girl he had ever known. Of that he 
 was quite certain and he was eager to tell her so. 
 
 The confession came one cold Sunday in December, 
 when they had spent the day at the Bronx Zoo and, tir- 
 
34 8 THE AMATEUR 
 
 ing of the animals, had walked out over the Park, along 
 winding roads, frozen hard, with white, brittle ice in the 
 ruts where water had gathered. There was no one in 
 sight, for it was turning cold, and there was a nimble 
 winter wind. It was hardly a day for love-making but 
 Carey found the words came as readily to his lips as a 
 much less significant statement might have done. It was 
 a thrilling experience to tell her he loved her and to 
 watch the effect of his words. Did she love him? What 
 was the good of loving if it was not returned? Was 
 there any one else ? Didn t she care for him a little ? He 
 tried hard to make her answer his questions but only par 
 tially succeeded. 
 
 That night, on the landing before the door of the 
 apartment, he kissed her for the first time. He did it 
 very tenderly, very gently, gathering her in his arms, 
 pressing her strongly to him, while his love for her rose 
 up in his heart, welling over, possessing him completely. 
 
 It was not until a number of days after this that the 
 idea of marrying Jane first occurred seriously to Carey. 
 He was walking down Broadway, his mind busy with the 
 thought of the girl who had come into his life, compli 
 cating it, disturbing him. It occurred to him that it was 
 a contemptible thing to make her learn to love him if he 
 was not in earnest himself. Indignation rose within him 
 at this self -accusation. He was incapable of such mean 
 ness! Why why, he loved her! 
 
 Suddenly the air reverberated with the words. Up 
 toward the blue sky, beyond, above, higher still than the 
 gaunt, cold steel and concrete buildings of the city, were 
 flung the words that rioted in his mind and heart as their 
 import first flashed into his consciousness. He loved 
 her! He loved little Jane Boardman! In his heart, whose 
 pure emotions he had abused, whose sanctity he had de- 
 
THE AMATEUR 349 
 
 graded, there had been born a great passion. It came 
 to few. The marvel had come to him, to him! Un 
 worthy as he might be, weighted down as he was with the 
 memory of his recent profligacy, yet, as a dove folding 
 its white wings and nestling there, love had fluttered 
 down from somewhere out of the world and alighted 
 within him. The tears rushed into his eyes and he 
 clenched his teeth. Marry her? Why, good God, he d 
 die for her! His Jane his girl nobody else s! She 
 had been intended for him and he for her since the day 
 they had been born. A mighty sword rent the curtain that 
 hung before his eyes, and he saw, beyond, that country 
 in whose existence he had never before believed. And 
 there was Springer, smiling and holding out his hand. 
 The miracle had happened ; Carey, in that moment, joined 
 the company of the lovers of the world. 
 
 That same evening, when Jane came out of the build 
 ing in which the offices of the Consolidated Press Asso 
 ciation were located, she found Carey waiting for her. 
 Something in his expression made her inquire anxiously : 
 
 "What is it, Carey? Anything wrong?" 
 
 He shook his head, half smiling, and slipped his hand 
 under her elbow; together they started to walk down 
 Fourth Avenue. 
 
 "Where shall we go to-night?" Carey demanded. 
 "I ve got a lot I want to say to you." 
 
 "What is it, Carey? What has happened?" She was 
 all solicitude. 
 
 "Nothing, nothing, my darling. I ve just realised how 
 much I love you. I have a number of things to tell you. 
 Where can we go to talk ? Let s have dinner somewhere, 
 and take a long walk afterwards." 
 
 He accompanied Jane to her home and waited while 
 
350 
 
 THE AMATEUR 
 
 she put on a fresh linen collar and changed her hat. 
 The atmosphere of the Boardman apartment was always 
 cheerful and heartening. The old white-haired giant, 
 Jane s father, and Carey had developed a genuine liking 
 for one another. Although the former rarely spoke and 
 when he did, it was in a deep bass, half rumble, half 
 growl Carey felt no constraint when he was with him, 
 and often caught the sharp twinkle under the white, bushy 
 eyebrows that told him that his meaning had been under 
 stood, his jest appreciated, his sentiments approved. 
 They had a secret understanding with one another that 
 no one else shared. 
 
 Carey and Jane had dinner at Guffanti s on Seventh 
 Avenue, where an excellent Italian table d hote dinner 
 was served for the moderate price of seventy-five cents. 
 It was crowded and noisy, but, sitting at one of the small 
 side tables, they were entirely lost in the throng of diners 
 and could speak as confidentially as they wished without 
 fear of being overheard. 
 
 Carey poured out his love to Jane as he never had be 
 fore. His eloquence seemed miserably inadequate to 
 him, but he was gratified in a measure to observe its ef 
 fect upon her. 
 
 "Carey, do you really love me that much?" 
 
 "Sweetheart, it s more than I can express, but I ll show 
 you a devotion when we re married that will satisfy you, 
 no matter how exacting you may be." 
 
 Jane absently toyed with the silverware, making vague 
 patterns on the table cloth with the prong of her fork, 
 but her lover saw the heightened colour in her face. 
 
 "Carey," she asked, in some hesitation and confu 
 sion, "when did you first begin to care?" 
 
 "On that excursion boat, I guess," he answered 
 thoughtfully, "but I was too much of a simpleton to real- 
 
THE AMATEUR 351 
 
 ise it, then. It was to-day, for the first time, that it sud 
 denly came over me how much you really mean to me." 
 
 There was still something constrained in Carey s man 
 ner. Usually they liked to loiter over their dinner; but, 
 to-night, he was anxious to terminate it as soon as the 
 coffee was served. 
 
 "I can t talk in here," he said. "I ve got to get out in 
 the street where we can talk as we walk along." 
 
 They presently found themselves outside in the cold 
 confusion of the winter streets. It was a fortnight be 
 fore Christmas, and the small shops that crowded each 
 other on either side of the wide avenue were all brightly 
 lighted. Christmas greens hung in the windows, whose 
 glass panes were half-suffused with queer patterns of 
 frost. Mounds of snow banked the sidewalks, awaiting 
 the coming of the street cleaners, and sections of the 
 pavements not as yet shovelled clear were covered with 
 a three-inch packing of snow, trodden into a hard, 
 smooth, slippery surface. 
 
 Carey and Jane crossed the Avenue and turned down 
 a side street, where there were fewer people and more 
 shadow. They were obliged to walk briskly, because the 
 cold was sharp. When they reached Fifth Avenue, they 
 unconsciously turned north on the deserted thorough 
 fare, as its sidewalks were thoroughly cleaned of the 
 snow and the walking was good. 
 
 "Jane," Carey began, "I can t marry you without tell 
 ing you what a rotter I ve been. I love you too deeply, 
 too earnestly to deceive you about anything. Success 
 came too rapidly to me, I guess. I thought all this out 
 while I lay awake at night in the hospital. I got a true 
 picture of myself, of what I was, and no one will know 
 what agonies of remorse I ve suffered and, since I ve 
 come to realise how desperately I love you, it s all the 
 
352 THE AMATEUR 
 
 worse. There wasn t a more contemptible, unsufferably 
 conceited man in this whole city than I a year ago ! " 
 
 "I won t have you say such things about yourself," 
 she interrupted indignantly. 
 
 "My dear, you didn t know me then, thank God. You 
 wouldn t have loved me; you d have hated me. My 
 head was turned with the money I made so easily, and I 
 squandered it like the besotted ass I was. My God, Jane ! 
 If I could only wipe out the memory of those days of 
 debauchery !" 
 
 They walked along silently for half a block. 
 
 "I don t know how much of the world you know/ 
 Carey stiffened himself to say what he had determined 
 to tell her, "but you may take my word of honour that 
 I ve lived on the whole a cleaner life than most men. I 
 have no reason ever to be ashamed to look my children 
 in the face. My record, as far as that goes, is a square 
 one, a clean one, but I ve got to tell you, that . . . 
 with women . . . I ve acted like other men ... I 
 can t marry you unless you know . . . for three 
 months just before Blanchard shot me, I ... there 
 was a woman . . ." 
 
 Jane interrupted him. 
 
 "Please don t go on," she said, nervously and in a 
 troubled voice. "You ve told me all I have a right to 
 know all I want to know. I know something of men s 
 lives, I ve talked with my father, I ve talked with him 
 about you. He s a great, wise man, my father is, and 
 I love him with my whole heart. He has told*me many 
 things, only some of which I understand ; but, whether I 
 understand them or not, I believe them to be true. He 
 told me that, if you were the right kind of man and really 
 loved me, you would tell me about yourself and the 
 kind of a man you have been. But he warned me not 
 
THE AMATEUR 353 
 
 to allow you to tell me more than any specific instances, 
 I mean, and and I know he is right. I cannot reconcile 
 the different codes of morals between men and women. 
 I I know a man s is not the same as a woman s. I 
 don t pretend to understand it, to approve or condone it. 
 It is a great pity that it is so that it is wrong. But I 
 cannot find it in my heart to hold you personally respon 
 sible for what I, differently sexed, might equally be guilty 
 of." 
 
 Jane paused a moment. They had reached a crossing, 
 and waited for a motor to pass. When she spoke again, 
 her voice was low and constrained. 
 
 "It s it s only the children I am thinking of . . ." 
 
 Carey, in turn, interrupted. 
 
 "No no, Jane! I d tell you if it were so! Believe 
 me, Jane, I pledge you my sacred word of honour!" 
 
 "Then that is all I wish to know, that is what I 
 have been dreading all these weeks since I began to real 
 ise how much I loved you. Don t tell me anything more. 
 It would spoil my romance. I should never forget what 
 ever you told me, and it would haunt me the rest of my 
 life. I prefer not to know. Please, Carey, please. I m 
 sure I am right, even if my father hadn t advised me." 
 
 Carey walked beside her without answering. It would 
 have relieved his mind and troubled conscience if he could 
 have told her of his relations with Myra. And yet he 
 could see that such a confession would always trouble 
 her. He was moved too profoundly by her sweetness to 
 press the point. He was only too ready to turn from the 
 arduous duty he had decided to compel himself to per 
 form, and, with a free heart and mind, to tell her again, 
 for the thousandth time that night, how much he loved 
 her. 
 
354 THE AMATEUR 
 
 It was all wonderful : the winter heavens, the winter 
 streets, the hint of Christmas in the air, they two, in such 
 supreme accord, in such perfect companionship, in such 
 divine, intoxicating love. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 AREY and Jane were married at seven o clock in 
 the evening of St. Valentine s Day, in St. George s 
 Church. After the ceremony, there was a supper served 
 in the tiny dining room of the Boardman apartment. 
 Only Joe Downer and a girl friend of Jane s had been 
 invited, as it was impossible to seat more about the table. 
 Old Mr. Boardman had been unable to go to the church, 
 but, when the newly married pair came running up the 
 long flight of stairs in advance of the others, they found 
 him at the head of the table, sharpening a great carving 
 knife preparatory to dismembering the two cold roast 
 chickens before him. Mysteriously he had produced a 
 quart of champagne that stood nearby in a bucket of ice, 
 attaining a proper degree of coldness. As his daughter 
 entered, he laid down the knife and steel and took her 
 into the mighty embrace of his great arms. Down the 
 bridge of his nose Carey noticed one tear trickle ; it was 
 the only sign of emotion he had ever seen on the face 
 of the silent, grim giant. 
 
 Springer and Cecilia had been at the church ; Mark Har 
 rison, Doctor Floherty, McNeil and French were there, 
 and Carey thought he recognised, in two bulging black 
 figures who sat behind the others, aloof and apart, Mrs. 
 Fillmore and Miss Watt. He had been very much ex 
 cited, horribly conscious that his white vest would not 
 
 355 
 
356 THE AMATEUR 
 
 stay down as he pulled it, and that his tie was climbing 
 his collar in back, and that his hair, that he had so care 
 fully brushed, was badly mussed. He was not at all 
 ready when the clergyman began : 
 
 "Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together here in the 
 sight of God and in the face of this company " 
 
 All through the service he kept repeating silently to 
 himself, "I m being married ! I m being married ! I m 
 being married." 
 
 Jane, her head a trifle bent, appeared as calm and as 
 self-contained as the minister himself. He caught sight 
 of the tip of her nose, the curve of her cheek, the point 
 of her chin, beneath the edge of the flowered hat she 
 wore, and it abruptly came over him how dearly he loved 
 her. Suddenly the voice of the priest changed from the 
 solemn enunciation of the service to one of easy conver 
 sation. Carey realised he was being congratulated. It 
 was all over; he and Jane were man and wife. 
 
 The supper party was not as gay and festive as Carey 
 would have liked. Jane and her mother sat beside one 
 another, silently holding hands, both conscious of their 
 swiftly approaching parting. Old Mr. Boardman pre 
 sided, taciturn as usual, at the head of the table, slicing 
 the chicken, leaning forward to inspect the plates of the 
 party, nodding to Horace to fill some glass that was 
 growing empty. Jane s girl friend and Joe Downer 
 maintained a feeble interchange of banalities, while the 
 twins furnished a slight element of festivity by threat 
 ening Carey with rice, old shoes and tin cans tied to the 
 axle of the taxi-cab that was waiting below, unless he 
 agreed to be blackmailed to the extent of ten cents a 
 head. Matters were not improved by the arrival of 
 neighbours who confessed with unctuous good humour 
 that they just had to come in and kiss the bride be- 
 
THE AMATEUR 357 
 
 fore her new husband carried her off. Their presence 
 helped, however, to make the parting between Jane and 
 her mother less tearful than it otherwise might have been. 
 Somehow, the good-byes were said; Carey s hand was 
 wrung and good luck wished him; Jane s gentle mother 
 drew his head down upon her shoulder, rumpling his 
 hair, while brokenly she urged him to take "good care 
 of her little girl/ The twins and Joe and Horace car 
 ried their two suit-cases, a belated wedding gift, and a 
 large hat box down to the taxi-cab in the street. To 
 gether, Jane and Carey began the descent of the long, 
 cold stone stairs, a trying ordeal, for every one in the 
 building seemed waiting to see them make what was 
 termed their "get-away." Carey could hear voices call 
 ing to one another below : 
 
 "Here they comer 
 
 "The bride and groom re coming!" 
 
 "Bessie Bessie ! Oo-hoo, Bessie ! Come quick ! Here 
 they come!" 
 
 They were stopped at landing after landing, while 
 Jane s hand was pressed and she was kissed by the more 
 impetuous. An occasional handful of rice followed 
 them, and there was a general hub-bub of laughter and 
 shrill cries. 
 
 A small crowd waited outside in the street. Horace 
 held open the door of the cab, and Carey and Jane made 
 a quick run for its sheltering protection. A roar broke 
 from the crowd, and Carey found himself thankful that 
 he had married a nimble woman, for Jane tripped into 
 the dark interior of the taxi with hardly a second s delay, 
 and Carey had only to pause the instant before he leaped 
 in beside her. The door slammed ; he heard Joe s voice 
 shouting his name; the taxi lurched and lumbered over 
 the broken surface of the street. A face leered in at 
 
358 THE AMATEUR 
 
 them through the window, and Carey swiftly pulled the 
 shade over it. The impact of three missiles striking* the 
 back of the taxi brought from Jane a terrified : 
 
 "Carey ! They re stoning us !" 
 
 Her confident husband laughed. 
 
 "Those are old shoes, my darling. They re wishing 
 us luck!" 
 
 Jane had a friend about her own age who lived with a 
 chaperon, governess, companion a personage combin 
 ing all these requirements on East Seventy-sixth 
 Street, a short block and a quarter from Fifth Avenue 
 and the Park. Miss Galveston had an uncle who pro 
 vided for her generously, but, being an unmarried man 
 himself, and a lover of the comfort and seclusion of his 
 club, he found that the problem of his niece was greatly 
 simplified by the capable and reliable Miss Jenks, who 
 assumed the care, the upbringing, and even the education 
 of his sister s child for the modest sum of two hundred 
 dollars a month. 
 
 Various reasons had led Miss Galveston s uncle to 
 make her a Christmas present of a trip to Italy, a pros 
 pect that threw both Miss Jenks and her charge into a 
 fever of excitement. So much must be done, so much 
 provided for, so much arranged! There was the little 
 apartment, so tiny and cozy, filled with Miss Jenks in 
 laid, precious furniture and treasured souvenirs of for 
 mer, happily-remembered travels. It would not do to 
 leave these in an empty apartment to mildew or be stolen, 
 while storage was such a bother and so expensive. If 
 some one, a careful bachelor, or a widow and her daugh 
 ter, or, better still, two maiden ladies, sisters perhaps, 
 could be found who would rent the little apartment just 
 as it was, for the time they were to be gone, Miss Jenks 
 
THE AMATEUR 359 
 
 declared she d let it go for no more than the rent she paid 
 herself, and ask not one penny for the use of all her 
 pretty furniture. 
 
 "Would a married couple do?" Miss Galveston sug 
 gested. 
 
 "Children?" Miss Jenks had popped out the question 
 as she might have pulled a cork from a bottle. 
 
 "Oh, my, no ! They re only just they aren t married 
 yet! I was thinking of Jane Boardman. She was say 
 ing the other day that, when she was married, she wanted 
 to go to keeping house right away, only there wasn t any 
 furniture." 
 
 Miss Jenks considered the matter thoughtfully, as she 
 ripped basting threads out of the travelling skirt, the hem 
 of which she had just finished stitching on the machine. 
 
 "I should have to see the man first." She delivered 
 this decision in spite of the row of pins she held between 
 her lips. 
 
 So it was that Jane had brought Carey out the follow 
 ing Sunday afternoon, and he was introduced to Miss 
 Jenks for inspection. There was something attractive 
 about the house in which Miss Galveston and her chap 
 eron lived. It was white, prim, narrow, and rather re 
 tiring beside the towering apartment buildings on either 
 side. There was a modest tailor shop on the ground floor 
 an insult to the neighbourhood, Miss Jenks assured 
 Carey, that the landlord had promised to rectify as soon 
 as the lease was up. Tucked away, as if it were ashamed 
 of itself, a small doorway cuddled down beside the shop, 
 which gave access to the apartments above. There were 
 four of these apartments, all alike, except the top one, 
 which had the distinction of possessing a real kitchen. 
 The others consisted of two fair-sized, narrow rooms con 
 nected by a long neck of hall which, cut into sections by 
 
360 THE AMATEUR 
 
 real doors or suggested divisions, furnished a kitchenette, 
 a bath, a wash-stand and china closet. The one occupied 
 by Miss Jenks and her charge was on the third floor and 
 was exceptionally bright and sunny, and the rent of 
 thirty dollars a month seemed moderate to Carey at the 
 time. It was completely furnished, and Miss Jenks as 
 sured them that all they would have to do would be to 
 move right in. This was the argument that had the 
 most weight with them. They were eager to be married, 
 and their wedding would have to be postponed many 
 months if they had to wait to save the money to furnish 
 a house properly. 
 
 Carey had been obliged to dispose of his tapestries, his 
 tall candlesticks, and the big oriental rug that had cov 
 ered the floor of the Fifty-ninth Street studio. They 
 had brought less than a quarter of the sum he had orig 
 inally paid, but he had parted with them with hardly a 
 regret. They reminded him of a period of his life that 
 would always be a humiliation. Besides this considera 
 tion, he was desperately in need of funds. The excur 
 sions with Jane, the intimate luncheons, the dinners and 
 theatres they enjoyed together, while never extravagant, 
 required money, and, in addition, there were his living 
 expenses, his model hire, his artist s materials, which, in 
 his last effort to make something of his art, he would 
 not permit himself to sacrifice. 
 
 It was after they had viewed Miss Jenks tiny quarters 
 and he had seen the shining light of happiness in Jane s 
 eyes as she beheld in anticipation the vision of beginning 
 life in such bright and charming quarters, that Carey 
 took a final, decisive step. Deliberately he resigned the 
 hope of ever attaining again that pinnacle of popularity 
 in his profession which he had known for so short a time. 
 
 He gave up his Art. It was the greatest sacrifice he 
 
THE AMATEUR 361 
 
 had ever made. Not even Jane understood, and he took 
 pains to see that she did not. He knew too well the 
 heroic stand she would have taken, and her happiness 
 meant more to him now than anything else. 
 
 Mark Harrison had once been a retoucher in a pho 
 to-engraving establishment. He had often regaled 
 Springer and Carey with amusing stories of his early 
 experiences before he had launched out as a cartoonist. 
 He had told of the drudgery of the work, the unending 
 succession of photographs whose backgrounds must be 
 airbrushed, or obliterated with opaque red; of portraits 
 whose features must be strengthened, eyes put in, noses 
 outlined, mouths and chins more sharply indicated; of 
 legs and arms that must be added; of summer scenes that 
 must be changed to winter; of crookedly photographed 
 landscapes that must be straightened ; of the hundred and 
 one calls made upon him and the other men in that de 
 partment. Day in and day out, it had been rush, rush, 
 rush; there was never any praise for work done well or 
 finished on time, but always blame or criticism when the 
 time allotted to finish a certain piece of work proved in 
 sufficient to complete it satisfactorily and there had been 
 a few minutes delay. No wonder there was always a 
 demand for retouchers when a good one could always get 
 a better job at easier work; a satisfactory retoucher was 
 capable of work of a higher grade. 
 
 But was he ? That was the question Carey asked him 
 self as he considered the matter. He knew he was clever 
 at retouching photographs, for much of the work the 
 railroad at home had given him had been of this nature, 
 during the years he had attended to its art matters. He 
 had achieved some difficult transformations with certain 
 photographs. Joe had taught him the use of the air 
 brush. 
 
362 THE AMATEUR 
 
 But, if he understood retouching and did it unusually 
 well, did that prove he was worthy of more exacting 
 work? He did not debate the matter with himself very 
 long. The shining look in Jane s eyes, as she gazed about 
 Miss Jenks complete, diminutive quarters, decided him. 
 
 He obtained a job in the first engraving house to which 
 he applied. The Pillsbury Engraving Company was lo 
 cated on lower Fifth Avenue. It occupied two upper 
 floors of a corner loft building, and had done business in 
 the same spot for twenty years. 
 
 As Carey stepped out of the elevator and stood hesitat 
 ingly before the counter, a pimply-faced youth, in a 
 striped canvas apron, paused a moment in his hurried 
 assortment of a pile of proofs to gaze curiously at him 
 as he inquired if there was a retoucher s job vacant. He 
 ran his eye over Carey appraisingly, and, without turn 
 ing his head, bawled at the top of his voice the single 
 imperative syllable: 
 
 "Dick!" 
 
 A small, freckled, snub-nosed boy stuck his head 
 through an open doorway with a petulant : 
 
 "What d yer want?" 
 
 "Take this man up to Mr. Clements." 
 
 Through a confusion of workmen and the parapherna 
 lia of an engraving plant, Carey followed his young 
 guide. The atmosphere was vibrant with a bedlam of 
 small noises: the persistent droning of machinery, the 
 quick raps of hammers affixing plates to wooden blocks, 
 the whir of a steel saw, the sharp bite of a routing ma 
 chine. Over all there prevailed the penetrating odour of 
 powerful acids. Up back stairs, through a gallery where 
 the cameras were located, and which the developing 
 rooms adjoined, Carey made his way. Beyond, in a 
 small, bare room, under a brilliant skylight, sat three 
 
THE AMATEUR 363 
 
 young men silently bending over their respective drawing 
 boards. The fourth, a wizened little man with glasses 
 and a stiff red beard, sat on a slightly raised platform, 
 brush in hand, intent upon his work. 
 
 "Mr. Clements, this man wants a job!" The snub- 
 nosed boy delivered his message and vanished. The four 
 occupants of the room turned round to examine the ap 
 plicant. Carey was conscious of his good clothes and the 
 difference in his face and bearing from the men who 
 stared at him. 
 
 The anarchistic-looking foreman asked Carey the nec 
 essary questions regarding his previous experience, di 
 rected him to a vacant drawing table, and then placed 
 some photographs before him that were waiting to be re 
 touched. When they were finished, Clements examined 
 them critically. Curtly he told Carey to report at 
 eight o clock the following Monday morning; he would 
 receive twenty-five dollars a week. 
 
 That evening Carey asked Jane if she thought a steady 
 income of a hundred dollars a month would be sufficient 
 for their needs. With pencil and paper they figured out 
 their expenses. Thirty dollars for rent, ten dollars a week 
 for the table and laundry, ten dollars a month for gas 
 and electricity. It left a magnificent balance of twenty 
 dollars, half of which they certainly should be able to save 
 against a rainy day. Neither of them would need clothes 
 for a long time, as Carey s wardrobe was still well 
 stocked with the tailored creations of his days of plenty, 
 and Jane s savings were all to go into a very complete 
 trousseau. There was also a nest-egg of two hundred 
 dollars in the bank remaining from the sale of the tapes 
 tries and rug. 
 
 "There will be an extra twenty-five dollars whenever 
 
364 THE AMATEUR 
 
 there s a fifth Saturday in the month," Carey said hap 
 pily. 
 
 "An extra twenty-five dollars?" Jane asked, puzzled 
 and surprised. 
 
 Then he told her of what he had done ; but his careless 
 air did not deceive the girl. She looked at him silently 
 for some minutes, and Carey saw stormy opposition gath 
 ering in her eyes. 
 
 "Listen, my dearest girl . . ." 
 
 He stopped her before she had time to begin. She was 
 not hard to convince as he drew before her eyes the pic 
 ture of the happiness that would be theirs if she let him 
 make a sacrifice which, after all, he assured her, meant 
 so little to him, merely relieving him from the constant 
 work and uncertainty of an unprofitable profession. 
 There was Miss Jenks apartment ready for them, and 
 Miss Jenks herself waiting for their final word. They 
 could be married right away; at any rate, early in Feb 
 ruary. 
 
 It was a sufficient reward for what his decision had 
 cost him just to see her face begin to glow and to watch 
 the shining, happy light come back into her eyes. 
 
 "Carey !" she exclaimed, as a brilliant thought occurred 
 to her, "wouldn t it be a splendid idea to be married on 
 Valentine s Day?" 
 
 Carey s answer was to take her in his arms, turn her 
 face up to his own and press his lips to hers. There was 
 nothing in the world that was not worth sacrificing for 
 this wonderful girl. At such moments, Carey s love was 
 almost an anguish. He found it impossible to express 
 it, and yet he was forever trying. It was a constant sur 
 prise to him that she should possibly conceive for him 
 a similar passion. Other lovers, he was convinced, 
 cared not as they did. Great love was permitted to only 
 
THE AMATEUR 365 
 
 a few; how it was, by what act of Heaven he had been 
 selected to experience it, he did not know. Springer, un 
 questionably, loved Cecilia; but it was ridiculous to sup 
 pose that he bore her any such blind, fierce love as Carey 
 knew. Springer had just happened to meet Cecilia at the 
 moment when he was ready to fall in love ! He did not 
 know Jane. That was the difference. By some whirl 
 of fortune, by some unaccountable direction of Fate, 
 some manifestation of divine will, Carey had met the 
 right girl and had had the brains to see in her his true 
 mate, the wife that was made for his particular needs, 
 the woman who could awake in him the great passion 
 that shook and thrilled him. 
 
 Carey and Jane had no honeymoon. The day follow 
 ing their marriage, a Sunday, they spent alone in the 
 first intoxication of their wedded happiness. Monday 
 morning at eight o clock, Carey must punch his time card 
 in the office of the Pillsbury Engraving Company and 
 listen for the rest of the day to the guttural directions 
 and comments of Mr. Clements. The parting from Jane 
 on that first morning was a hard wrench; it seemed an 
 inhuman thing to leave her alone all day in that apart 
 ment. Firmly he told himself that he must go to his 
 work and face the prospect of not seeing her for eleven 
 hours. It never occurred to him that he was no different 
 from millions of bridegrooms who had preceded him, 
 or from millions who would follow. For many years, 
 the comic weeklies had made sport of this moment of 
 separation between people just married; but Carey did 
 not recognise his own case as being in any way similar. 
 Springer and Cecilia had once irritated him by their trite 
 and conventional manner of living, their view-point, 
 speech and code. He failed to see that he and Jane were 
 
3 66 THE AMATEUR 
 
 guilty of exactly what he had found fault with in them. 
 They were true to their type. 
 
 Somehow, the first day and those that succeeded were 
 lived through and, when the afternoons began to wane, it 
 was a glorious anticipation to think of going home to her. 
 Carey walked to and from the office, saving car-fare 
 and getting exercise. It took him forty-five minutes to 
 reach his home. Jane, too, counted the hours as well 
 as he, and always, after he had turned the corner where 
 the big synagogue stood facing the Park and had passed 
 a certain flight of steps half way down the block, he got 
 his first glimpse of the house, and never failed to see her 
 figure at the window watching for him. She would leave 
 her post when he reached the corner of Madison Ave 
 nue, and meet him at the foot of the stairs in the dark 
 little hall into which opened the retiring entrance that 
 cuddled beside the tailor shop. That meeting was always 
 the supreme moment of the day. 
 
 Dinner would be ready, a delicious meal of usually 
 three and often four courses. Carey never ceased to 
 marvel at his wife s cooking, her cleverness and ingenu 
 ity. Never was an uneaten morsel of food wasted; in 
 some appetizing manner it appeared upon the table at 
 another meal. Jane claimed that she had her mother 
 to thank for this secret of domestic economy. Certain 
 it was she ran the house on an astonishingly small in 
 come. She allowed herself a dollar a day for their food ; 
 but often had to do with less. There was continually 
 some small, unforeseen expense, which had to be paid in 
 part out of the appropriation for their modest table. The 
 only bills Carey and Jane were obliged to run were for 
 gas and electricity. They paid cash for everything else, 
 even the newspaper that Carey bought in the morning on 
 his way down town, and the milk that Jane carried home 
 
THE AMATEUR 367 
 
 from the dairy when she needed it. It was she who bore 
 the brunt of their financial problem, but Carey did his 
 share to the extent of giving up lunches and learning 
 how to roll his cigarettes in order to use a cheaper grade 
 of tobacco. In place of food at noon time, he patro 
 nised the soda-water counter beneath the rotunda in 
 Siegel-Coopers mammoth department store, where he 
 could get a cup of coffee and two saltine crackers for five 
 cents. The coffee was served to him in a long china cup 
 set in a metal holder, and in this form it did not make 
 him conspicuous to be seen drinking it. Certainly he felt 
 much less self-conscious standing among the crowd that 
 always thronged this soda counter than he would have 
 done making a five-cent purchase at either Childs or one 
 of the new "wait-on-yourself" restaurants. 
 
 But there were no real hardships for either of them. 
 It was all fun; they were like children together, and 
 Carey regarded his self-denial as an offering to her who 
 stood for all that was worth loving and worth having in 
 life. 
 
 Spring overtook them unexpectedly. Every one else in 
 the thronging city who had endured the cold and the rig 
 ours of the hard winter, was waiting eagerly for the 
 mellow spring; but Carey and Jane had been too happy 
 to notice that snow had fallen and been cleared away, had 
 fallen again, and once more been cleared away, only to 
 cover the streets again as soon as the army of men and 
 the long string of dump carts had made the streets pass 
 able once more. Spring came to them as an added bless 
 ing; it was as if Nature found their union good and 
 smiled upon them. 
 
 Walking down through the Park every morning, Carey 
 watched the buds on the trees slowly swell and fatten, 
 until, urged by a warm, persistent sun, simultaneously 
 
3 68 THE AMATEUR 
 
 they burst their casings, pushing their wrinkled green 
 noses out of their shells, like rabbits cautiously emerging 
 from their burrows. The grass that stretched away on 
 either side of his path took on a lovelier verdant color. 
 Birds shrilled joyously in the trees and hopped energet 
 ically among the bushes. Squirrels frisked in and out, 
 and up and down ; even the poor beasts in the Zoo seemed 
 aware the Spring had come, and lolled luxuriously on 
 their sides enjoying the temperate air. 
 
 As the weather grew warmer and June brought more 
 rich golden days, Jane formed the habit of walking down 
 to the end of the Park to sit somewhere near the tri 
 umphant Sherman statue and wait for Carey as he came 
 striding eagerly up the Avenue after the day s work was 
 over. He could always distinguish her white linen dress 
 and her blue parasol on the crowded benches. He knew 
 the instant that she, on her part, recognised his figure 
 as he crossed the square. They were always conscious 
 of others stares when they met. No matter how re 
 served they were, how restrained in manner, how con 
 ventional their deportment, they knew that all about 
 could see the love that shone out of their eyes and un 
 derstand the happy smile that illumined their faces. But 
 it was nothing of which to be ashamed, they told each 
 other. If the curious idlers on the benches witnessed 
 their happiness, let it do them what good it might. 
 
 Those were never-to-be-forgotten walks home through 
 the lengthening shadows and the brilliant shafts of sun 
 light that crossed their path. The Park was practically 
 deserted at this hour; the ubiquitous nurse-maids had 
 wheeled their charges home. A belated group of chil 
 dren still frolicked, perhaps, somewhere under the trees. 
 Their shrill cries and laughter sounded pleasantly on the 
 soft evening air. An occasional hum of a motor marked 
 
THE AMATEUR 369 
 
 the swift passage of some delayed man of affairs, or 
 some late tea-drinkers going home to dinner. Unex 
 pectedly, by an abrupt turn of the path, the romping 
 children would be discovered, the placid, Italian mother 
 waiting patiently for them to grow weary of their play. 
 They were curly-headed, swarthy children, with large, 
 sparkling black eyes, shouting strange, unchildlike jar 
 gon at each other. Slowly Carey and Jane sauntered 
 homeward, speaking little, arm in arm, conscious of the 
 bond of absolute sympathy that knitted their souls to 
 gether in perfect happiness. 
 
 If, out of the darkness of a wakeful moment during 
 the night, or brought up suddenly before him by a chance 
 word, a familiar spot, a meaningless allusion, a glance, a 
 sigh, there rose before Carey s eyes the spectre of himself 
 in another role, in other surroundings, he fiercely shut 
 his eyes and bowed his head in bitter self-reproach. It 
 was all so unfair to Jane ! He must keep his regrets and 
 his remorse to himself. It would be unfairer still to her 
 to mar the peace and serenity of her heart by revelations 
 that she had begged him not to make. She was content 
 to remain in ignorance of that dark chapter in his life. 
 But he longed to throw himself on his knees and, burying 
 his face in her lap, pour out to her his confession of sin 
 and weakness. He wanted, with all the strength that 
 was in him, to somehow make reparation. He had reas 
 sured an uneasy conscience, in the days of his wanton 
 ness, that he was harming no one by his folly. If only 
 he had known that the injury and the wrong were ac 
 cumulating and being saved for little Jane! 
 
 Carey bitterly paid for those days of recklessness. His 
 repentance brought him no comfort, did him no good. 
 Constantly he felt he had no right to his great happiness, 
 
THE AMATEUR 
 
 and that a punishment was awaiting him which he was 
 only too ready to admit he deserved. She might be taken 
 from him ! That was the fear continually lurking in the 
 shadows behind his back, in the dark corners, that he 
 could never move his eyes quick enough to see. 
 
 Once he saw Gerald Crofts and Myra in a box at the 
 theatre. He and Jane were hanging over the brass rail 
 ing of the family circle, so there was no possibility of 
 Myra s recognising him. Carey felt like a snail encoun 
 tering its own slimy track. It was intolerable to him that 
 Jane should even breathe the same air with Myra. He 
 controlled himself until the end of the act, and then com 
 plained that he felt giddy and that he was afraid he was 
 going to faint. They hurried out of the theatre; but 
 Jane s solicitude supplied additional fuel for the flames 
 of his remorse. 
 
 He derived a certain satisfaction from such moments 
 of acute anguish. It was the only way in which he could 
 be punished. It was bitter to remember, in the midst of 
 such perfect happiness, how utterly undeserving he was. 
 Only years of tender consideration, of thoughtful minis 
 tration, of loving solicitude and care for the woman he 
 had wronged and married would wipe out the black stain 
 upon his soul. Perhaps it was this passionate desire to 
 make reparation which urged him so constantly to new 
 endeavours to please her, to plan for her ease and com 
 fort, to think ahead for her, that convinced Jane that hers 
 was the most gentle, unselfish, devoted husband that ever 
 woman had. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 IT was a late afternoon during the following summer, 
 and Carey was clearing the weeds from the tomato 
 beds in the tiny truck garden at the back of the house. 
 Little Toby Springer was regarding him through a crack 
 in the fence, making curious noises through his nose to 
 attract his attention. Carey straightened himself pain 
 fully. He enjoyed the work of puttering about his gar 
 den but he was unaccustomed to it, and bending over for 
 so long made his back ache. He regarded Toby re 
 flectively, speculating upon what Carey Junior would be 
 like in another year when he would be Toby s age. Toby 
 was an unusually beautiful child, with the regular fea 
 tures of his father and the dull glory of his mother s hair. 
 People raved about him a great deal; but Carey shared 
 Jane s belief that, while Toby was handsome and well 
 behaved, he was too placid and stolid and did not have 
 half as much natural intelligence as Carey Junior showed 
 at six months. Carey Junior or "Carey-Ju," as they 
 called him made his own particular bid for beauty. He 
 had his father s yellow hair and high colour; but it was 
 the expression of intelligent interest and happy alert 
 ness in so young a baby that made him especially attrac 
 tive. 
 
 As Carey returned Toby s stare, following his own 
 thought, it seemed to him that Carey Junior was a thor 
 oughly satisfactory son. Jane had just put him into short 
 
372 THE AMATEUR 
 
 dresses, and, as he sat lolling, rather spinelessly, in his 
 new high chair, his pink toes waving beyond the edge of 
 the tiny dress, Carey, as he recalled the picture to mind, 
 felt a thrill of pride and love. 
 
 The screen door from the kitchen of the house that 
 abutted on to the rear of the one Carey and Jane occupied 
 was suddenly swung open, closing again with a smart 
 clap, as Springer came out on the landing at the head 
 of the back stairs. 
 
 "Hello, Carey," he called. "How s your strawberries?" 
 
 Carey frowned and shook his head discouragedly. 
 
 "Archibald s dog scratched the beds to pieces. I ll 
 have to get some more plants. Fisher s quite decent 
 about letting me have em." 
 
 Springer came down into his own yard and, avoiding 
 the array of diapers that were floating from the criss 
 crossed clothesline, swung Toby to his shoulder and 
 leaned over the low fence to inspect Carey s work. 
 
 "I wish my lettuce would head-in that way," he said, 
 gazing enviously at the short double row of firm speci 
 mens. 
 
 "I wish I had the time you have to put in on my gar 
 den," Carey rejoined. 
 
 "I don t see what you ve got to kick about. You ve 
 a much better-looking garden than I have !" 
 
 "Well, you don t like gardening as much as I do. If 
 you did, you d spend a great deal more time on it. If 
 I get up early enough, I can put in an hour or half-an- 
 hour before train time, and you know I don t get home 
 until six-fifteen ! There s just that and Sundays." 
 
 Springer nodded his head, admitting the point. 
 
 "Don t do that, Toby !" he exclaimed to the child, who 
 was plucking at the hairs in his eyebrows, "you hurt 
 Dad!" 
 
THE AMATEUR 373 
 
 "I ll have less time than ever, now," he continued; 
 "I ve just got two boys books from The Occident 
 to illustrate, and there are six more instalments of 
 the East and West serial for which I have to make those 
 thumb-nail pen-and-inks. I ve got to get in and hustle. 
 The Occident wants the illustrations by August first! 
 The books are fall publications." 
 
 Carey did not answer. It always hurt him when he 
 learned of others progress in the profession he had aban 
 doned. He wished Springer every success. Or, putting 
 it more honestly to himself, success in other work. It 
 had not been so bad while they were living in New York 
 City ; but, since he and Jane had come over to Leonia, an 
 artists colony, he had found his failure to make a living 
 by his Art a constant rankling pain. It was not as if he 
 doubted his ability to do better work than his neighbours. 
 That was the point of the whole matter. He knew that 
 he was a better workman, a better artist, than any of the 
 men who lived about him. Often he asked himself, if he 
 had persisted a little longer, if he had postponed his mar 
 riage another six months or a year, would his chance of 
 success through legitimate work have come? The fact 
 that he had known what popularity and preference meant, 
 made it seem all the harder. These had once been his! 
 But, when he thought of Jane and Carey- Ju, there re 
 mained no doubt in his mind that the sacrifice had been 
 worth while. But he wondered about the future. Was 
 he always to be a retoucher? Nothing more? Was 
 Carey- Ju to grow up to refer to him casually, negligibly, 
 as "My father, he works, you know ; he s a retoucher in 
 an Engraving Company; been there for twenty-odd 
 years"? Or, was his end to be among those who came 
 early every morning to the Metropolitan Museum to get 
 a place among the group of old men and women who 
 
374 THE AMATEUR 
 
 made hurried copies of the painting popularly known as 
 Paul and Virginia to sell for what they could get, two 
 dollars, perhaps? 
 
 These were bitter reflections, and Carey could not 
 strive against them. Persistently they came. His wife 
 knew what distressed him, and often, when he was a 
 prey to these unprofitable and gloomy thoughts, she 
 would come softly up behind him, lay one cool forearm 
 about his neck and touch his yellow hair gently with her 
 lips. He knew she understood, and it was her rare and 
 perfect sympathy that always furnished him with fresh 
 courage. He had become an expert workman; to him 
 was given always the most difficult photographs to be 
 redeemed or altered; and his salary had been raised to 
 forty dollars a week. But it was an ignominious success 
 at best, a cheap achievement, one that he held in con 
 tempt and despised in his heart. 
 
 A week, ten days ago, whenever it was that Jane 
 had put Carey- Ju in short dresses for the first time and 
 sat him, fat and laughing, in the new high chair, Carey 
 had been carried out of himself by the picture his son 
 had made with his golden, ethereal hair, that curled in 
 tangled wisps about his head, and the five little, round, 
 pink-putty marbles that stuck out from either side under 
 the hem of his dress and represented his toes! When 
 Carey had laid his artist s materials away, he had made 
 up his mind that he would never put his hand to them 
 again. For him, at that moment, his art was over. But 
 the charm of the baby and the wish, somehow, to catch 
 and preserve it led him to root out from among the 
 trunks and packing cases in the attic the old box of paints 
 and drawing materials, and the dusty drawing table that 
 had followed him about for so many years. There were 
 some pastel crayons, most of them broken and scat- 
 
THE AMATEUR 375 
 
 tered but still enough for his immediate purpose and 
 Carey had spent a happy Sunday afternoon in handling 
 one of his old mediums and drawing his son s portrait. 
 And the result was not bad. He knew it was a good like 
 ness, and it had something of Carey-Ju s bright, intelli 
 gent interest. The picture suggested that the baby had 
 suddenly heard a funny noise and had cocked his head 
 a little to one side, expectant and curious, ready to hear 
 it again. 
 
 Jane was delighted, and her praise had been very pleas 
 ant to hear, even if her interest was a mother s. Carey 
 had been tempted to show it to Springer ; but he knew it 
 would have put his friend in the embarrassing position of 
 having to say it was good, whether he liked it or not. 
 So he told himself that he had been all through the game 
 and was too disillusioned to allow himself to be foolishly 
 encouraged by a happy likeness of his boy. 
 
 The screen door banged again, and Carey looked up to 
 smile and waive his hand to Cecilia. She had become 
 more lovely in motherhood than she had ever been before. 
 She was much heavier, her arms and neck and bosom pos 
 sessing a certain voluptuous ampleness that gave her a 
 soft, reposeful serenity. 
 
 Carey compared her for a moment to his own wife. 
 They were widely different types, and, to Carey, Jane 
 was the more charming, the more perfectly made, the 
 more beautiful. Cecilia s bigness appeared almost cum 
 bersome to him beside the finer, more subtle and delicate 
 qualities of little Jane, who, he decided, was the more 
 feminine of the two. 
 
 "Bring Toby in, Fleming," Cecilia called to her hus 
 band, shielding her eyes from the sun s last shooting rays ; 
 "it s time for his bath, and Mary has the water run 
 ning." 
 
37 6 THE AMATEUR 
 
 "Where s Jane?" she asked, addressing Carey. 
 
 "I m sure I don t know, my dear," Carey called back. 
 "I came over from town a little earlier this afternoon to 
 dig in the garden, and Minna said Jane had gone over to 
 New York on the two-ten. I can t imagine why she isn t 
 home by now. What time is it?" 
 
 "It s after six, I don t know how much," Cecilia an 
 swered. 
 
 "Well, she ought to be on that next boat. I guess I ll 
 walk down to the trolley and wait for her." 
 
 It was late for Jane, especially as he knew of nothing 
 that was of sufficient importance to detain her. Usually 
 she rang him up at the office when she came to town un 
 expectedly, and arranged what boat they should take back 
 together. Besides, she was nursing Carey- Ju, and four 
 hours was the longest she had ever left him. She had 
 probably given Minna a bottle of modified milk to ap 
 pease his young appetite while she was gone, but it was 
 more than four hours now ! 
 
 The old, terrifying fear that something had happened 
 to her suddenly leaped upon him. He had not been so 
 ridiculously apprehensive about her since she had hero 
 ically come through the agony of her travail and brought 
 Carey-Ju into the world ; but he always felt nervous and 
 frightened when he was uncertain where she was or 
 if she failed to return when expected. 
 
 As he was walking back to the house, to slip on his 
 coat and have one look at Carey-Ju before he went down 
 to the car line, he heard her whistle. It was his own 
 call to her when he came home in the evenings, and it 
 always brought her, sweet and fragrant, to the door to 
 meet him. 
 
 Carey hurried around the house and saw her as she 
 was fumbling with the latch of the gate. She had been 
 
THE AMATEUR 377 
 
 running, and was struggling to catch her breath, her face 
 radiant and glowing. 
 
 Her husband caught her in his arms and hugged her 
 to him, in reaction from his fear. 
 
 "My darling," he said, consolingly, a mild reproach in 
 his voice, "you shouldn t run that way. Come into the 
 house and sit down while you catch your breath. Now, 
 just wait a minute " 
 
 "But, Carey but, Carey !" she gasped. 
 
 Her husband became suddenly aware that she was un 
 usually agitated. Behind the happy smile in her eyes and 
 upon her lips there was a hint of tears. Apprehensively 
 he leaned toward her. 
 
 "Dearest what has happened ?" 
 
 She put her arms about his neck and began to sob in 
 coherently. 
 
 Carey was alarmed. He half-carried, half -supported 
 her into the house. A feeling of approaching calamity 
 rilled him. 
 
 "Jane, my darling!" he said, his voice betraying his 
 agitation. "Tell me, what is it?" 
 
 The tone had its effect. 
 
 She smiled up at him through happy tears. 
 
 "No no, Carey. It isn t bad news, dearest. It s good 
 it s good news!" 
 
 She flung her arms again about his neck and kissed him 
 passionately. 
 
 "My my own, my darling, my husband," she 
 whispered. "I know what you have suffered. I ve 
 known every minute what you ve been through!" 
 
 Carey gazed at her, distressed, uncomprehending. 
 
 She laughed happily again at his puzzled expression. 
 
 "Dear, I ve sold it! I ve sold Carey-Ju s picture to 
 Mr. Sherman and he s delighted with it ! wants it for 
 
378 THE AMATEUR 
 
 the cover of their Christmas issue. Here s the cheque 
 for seventy-five dollars!" she cried triumphantly, open 
 ing her bag and waving it in the air. 
 
 Dazedly, Carey took the cheque from her and gazed 
 at the familiar signature at the bottom. 
 
 "And, what is more, Carey dear," his wife said, kissing 
 him eagerly again, "he gave me this, and said it was 
 about time he was making good his promises." 
 
 She pulled something else from her bag, and into Car 
 ey s hands fluttered the long, printed sheets he knew so 
 well and had coveted so long, the galley proofs of a 
 story. 
 
 "He wants three pictures, and agrees to pay one hun 
 dred and fifty dollars. And it isn t on speculation; ifs 
 an order!" 
 
 She stood off to watch the effect of her communica 
 tion ; but she was unprepared for Carey s emotion. 
 
 It was all too bewildering, too sudden, too tremendous. 
 He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands, 
 struggling to grasp the significance of it all, to realise that 
 his chance had come again, that his deliverance from 
 drudgery was at hand. Riding over and above these 
 rushing thoughts, there rose an overwhelming love for 
 her who, sensing his distress, had quietly, and without 
 word to him, taken the simple portrait he had made of 
 their son to her old employer on the chance or the con 
 fident belief, rather that it would please him. Brave, 
 faithful, loyal, trusting, loving little Jane! 
 
 He held out his arms to her, the tears blinding his 
 eyes, and she came to him, meeting his hands, his lips, his 
 heart, his love, with hers. 
 
 And so they sat together for a long time, until a faint 
 wail from upstairs roused the conscience-stricken mother. 
 
THE AMATEUR 379 
 
 She sped upstairs, and Carey wandered out upon the 
 porch, and gazed out across the Jersey landscape and 
 watched the brilliant orange in the western sky fade to 
 pink and graduate, by indistinguishable degrees, to faint 
 azure, and abruptly change to the ever-deepening shades 
 of blue as the canopy of heaven stretched eastward. 
 
 Jane presently came to call him for supper. 
 
 "Has it meant so much to you, my dear," she asked, 
 slipping her arm about him as his encircled her, "giving 
 up the work you wanted to do, giving it up for me?" 
 
 "Dearest, no one knows better than you do whether I 
 considered the sacrifice worth making for what I got in 
 return. But I was thinking," he continued, "of some 
 thing Gregory Shilling said to me when I first came to 
 New York and went to him for advice. I ve never for 
 gotten it, but I never so fully recognised the truth of it 
 as now. It was this : That no man can interpret life un 
 til he has learned something of what life is and has be 
 gun to understand it. It s because I think that I am at 
 last beginning to understand life that I believe so firmly 
 that I will still make good at what I want most to be." 
 
 Jane kissed him, and they turned into the house. 
 
 "You know," Carey said, ruminating, as they sat down 
 to the table, "you know, I think old Joe Downer would 
 like to hear about this. I think I ll wire him." 
 
 THE END 
 

 
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 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY