THE DIARY OFABOOK-A GENT LIBRARY UN WRSITYOF CALIFORNIA DIEGO THE DIARY OF A BOOK-AGENT BY ELIZABETH LINDLEY COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY (ELIZABETH LINDLEY. No claim of literary merit is made for this small volume. Its pages are just a record of incidents which really occurred, highly colored, perhaps but nevertheless true. THE AUTHOR. The Diary of a Book Agent Saturday, July 7th. I have just returned from answering an "ad" for a book agent. Am perfectly delighted with the con tract I made, and now feel that I was very stupid to have wasted so much time grieving in poverty on account of my pride. The manager who engaged me is such a kind, considerate man. He said he would charge me only $3.00 for a sample copy, for which all the other agents pay $5.00, and the best of it is, I am guaranteed a salary of $35.00 per week. Just think of it! Why I can live well, dress swell, and save a little for a rainy day. Thirty-five dollars a week seems like a fortune to me after three years of pinching and economy, and he says it is very easy to get orders. All I have to do is to call on the ladies with whose names he has furnished me, show 3 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT my book, following his instructions closely, and he assures me that almost every person I see will sub scribe, as it is such a beautiful edition of Shake speare s works, and is limited to five hundred sub scribers. The manager says he has several agents who have already turned in two or three hundred orders each, and he feels sure that I will do equally well, if not better. Dear me, I wish it were Satur day already, I am just dying to get a blue voile dress. July Qth. Worked all day and did not take a single order. I got a little discouraged and went to the office. The manager said not to feel badly over it, as some agents worked a week without taking any orders, then the next week would get fifty or sixty. He ad vised me to try downtown, thought perhaps I was better adapted to canvass gentlemen, as I was young and he flattered me by adding good looking. But having been told by so many persons that they had fine editions of Shakespeare, I was not ex actly satisfied with the result of my day s labor, and on my way home I called at another publisher s and 4 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT took the agency for Mark Twain s works. I am to canvass for these books on commission. July i oth. My first call this A. M. was on a nice old gentle man, who, after looking over my samples and listen ing to me patiently, patted me kindly on the shoul der and said : "I am afraid, my dear, you will find selling books a very difficult matter, for the percentage of people who buy books is small, very small indeed. Now, I have an article that I am putting on the market, something that is needed in every household, an embalming fluid, guaranteed to preserve everything from mincemeat to dead bodies." He noticed that I shuddered a little. "Well, my dear," he said solemnly, "we all must come to that some day, and this fluid, which costs only one dollar, will do the work for which the un dertaker charges $20.00. It is a wonderful idea every man his own undertaker." I declined several times to interfere with the un dertaker s business, but finding it impossible to get 5 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT away from the insistent chemist, I accepted the agency and left with a bottle of the fluid. Deposit ing it, and the circular he gave me, behind the radia tor in the hallway, I opened the door of another of fice, and stepping noiselessly in, walked up to a portly, important-looking man who sat behind a large desk in the centre of the room. "Would you like to look at a new edition of Shakespeare s works ?" I timidly asked. "Chestnuts," he said, and continued writing with out looking up. Feeling a little embarrassed, I went to the back of the office where five or six young men were busy with their books. "Would you like to look at a new edition of Mark Twain s works?" I inquired of the first. "Not interested," he replied with chilling indif ference. "Would you ?" I almost whispered to the second. "Nothin doin ," he answered bluntly. "Can t I show you?" I asked the third, trying to brighten up. "Not in the market." "How about you?" 6 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Count me out," was the polite request At this juncture a youngish-looking old man, near whom I was standing, pointed to a desk further down, as if advising me to try that man. Only too glad to get a little encouragement, I walked over and, with a feeling of confidence, took a vacant chair near the desk. "The gentleman over there thought you might like to look at this/ I said, placing my sample be fore him. "Mark Twain he is only jesting. Why, I have all his works, and Shakespeare s, too," he added as his eye caught the title of my other prospectus. "You rascal, I will get even with you for this," he shook his finger in the direction of his friend. "He knows, my dear young lady, that I have threatened to kill the first book agent who approached me." "But I am not a book agent," I replied, with a timid smile. "This is my first attempt I am only trying it." "Too bad ; hate to turn you down ; but have sev eral sets of the works which you are selling. Yet stop, perhaps I may be able to help you out," he 7 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT added thoughtfully. Then he stepped over to the man who pointed him out to me. After a short talk he came back. "Do you know a Mr. Clemens, or, rather, have you ever called on a Mr. Clemens with reference to this work?" he inquired, gravely stroking his beard. I replied that I had not called on any gentleman named Clemens. "Then I think if you take this to him you will make a sale there," and seating himself at his desk he wrote the following letter, which he read aloud : "Mv DEAR MR. CLEMENS : "Knowing how highly you appreciate the works of Mark Twain, and that above all others you con sider him the greatest humorist and genius of the age, I take great pleasure in introducing this young lady, who is selling a very fine edition of his works. Yours sincerely, etc., etc. "Take this right up to him now, and you will find him in. I was talking to him over the phone not twenty minutes ago." Hurrying out, I boarded an uptown car, and was soon at the address given. I confess to a little feel ing of anxiety as I inquired: "Is Mr. Clemens in?" 8 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT I was told that he was, and giving my card to the maid, I stepped into the reception room. A slight noise in the adjoining parlor attracted my attention, and on looking up I was more than surprised to see the original of the picture in my sample copy. "Clemens, Clemens," I muttered, then it dawned on me that I was the victim of a practical joke. I could feel the angry blood burning in my cheeks, as I thought of the fun those men were having at my expense. But before I could think of what to say or do, Mr. Clemens entered the room, and I found myself tendering him the letter. One glance at his face and I determined to play my part out. He read the letter through, then over again. A twinkle in his eye, and a slight twitching of the muscles of his mouth were the only indications I had that he appreciated the situation. I stood de murely by, looking innocently down, wondering what was going to happen next. "Taken many orders?" he inquired dryly. "I have not taken any yet," I replied. "I have just started in." 9 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Have you ever done this work before?" The question was accompanied by a scrutinizing look. "No," I said, with a slight tremor in my voice. "And you are trying to make your living this way?" I answered in the affirmative, my eyes filling with tears. "Then I will subscribe to the work to help you along," he said kindly. I could hardly hide the triumph I felt, as I thought how those men, who intended only to dis concert and annoy me for their amusement, would feel at the outcome of the joke. Mr. Clemens, who had left me rather abruptly, soon returned, with a check and a letter. "I have selected the best binding," he observed smilingly, "and I wish you personally to take a set of these books, not later than to-morrow, to the gentleman who sent you here. You may read this note, which you will be kind enough to give him." Wishing me success, he bowed me out. On leaving the house, I opened the letter and read : 10 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Mv DEAR ARTHUR : "You know it has been my custom for the past twenty years to make you a substantial birthday present. I intended buying you an automobile this A. M., but knowing that, like myself, you look upon Mark Twain as the greatest of living authors, I have subscribed to the set of books you so kindly brought to my notice. "I am aware that you already have six or seven different editions, but feel sure you will be delighted to receive this one. Yours faithfully, etc. July nth. This has been a red letter day for me. I have taken seven orders. Went to the office of the Grand Central Railroad at the suggestion of the manager. I had shown my book to so many per sons without taking an order, that I was beginning to feel like giving up, when I came across a nice old man, who said I was just calculated to sell books, as I had such a sweet voice, and pleasant manner of approaching people. He was so inter ested in me that he asked if I had a mother or father living, if I lived alone, or with friends. After informing me that he had no children, but always n THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT took a fatherly interest in young people ; he piloted me to another office where there were several young men. "Come, boys," he said to a group that was near the door, here is a deserving young lady selling a fine book; I want you all to subscribe. I will when she gets through with you." I opened my sample copy, and they all crowded around me and listened to what I said with consid erable interest. After a while one said : "If you subscribe, John, I will." "What do you say, Kid ?" John asked his neigh bor. "Suppose we all subscribe," another suggested. A short consultation followed, then John said, "It s a go." With eager, trembling fingers, I produced my or der book, and each young man attached his signa ture. My heart was bubbling over with joy as I thanked them, and started for the office of the nice old gentleman. When I entered the room he was busy writing, but he looked up and greeted me with a benevolent smile. THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Done any business?" he inquired kindly. "Oh, yes; I took seven orders," I answered proudly. "Good ! And now, little girl, can t I come up to see you this evening, and take you for a turn on a roof garden, or to the theatre? It must be very dull for you all alone." I told him I did not care to go out with strangers, and reminded him of his promise to sub scribe. "You must let me off this time," he answered suavely; "but come again, I will always be glad to see you." July 1 2th. Yesterday I felt elated because I took seven or ders; to-day I am irritable and nervous, for I have worked all day without results, and all because a man who wanted me to take an agency for a music box insisted upon my going up to Carnegie Hall to see some one who had to do with it. He said thou sands upon thousands were being sold all over the country, and that there was so much more demand for music boxes than for books. 13 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT Well, I went up, and his partner gave me a small music box for a sample, together with some circu lars, and suggested as there were a good many musi cal people in Carnegie Hall I might as well begin there. The first person I called on was a piano teacher, who settled my dream of success with the music box by telling me that it was a wretched thing, en tirely off key, and kept poor time; in short, that it was a villainous affair, and that if introduced into the homes of musically inclined people would do no end of harm. She, however, proposed that I canvass for an instrument invented by her, an automatic time keeper. She said there was a great call for them, and was so urgent that I decided to try the time keeper, and take back the music box ; but as the office door was locked, and a notice, "Will not be back till six," tacked on it, I had to carry it for the balance of the day. They were very kind, the people that live in Car negie Hall. Some were literati, some were artists, some were musicians. They bought neither books, 14 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT timekeepers, nor music boxes, but if I left the Hall hungry it was my fault. A dear little creature in a bewitching costume of lace and ribbon insisted on my having a cup of clam broth. Now, if there is anything in the world I dis like, it is clams! From my childhood up I have hated them in every form, but how could I let my dislike for clams interfere with my prospects of get ting an order ? So with a grateful look I took the cup from her dainty hand and by a supreme effort of which I felt justly proud I drank every drop. She looked on with a benign countenance while I swallowed the horrible dose, then sweetly informed me that she did not care to subscribe to either of the books. I was feeling very much like a martyr when I rapped on the adjoining door. This studio proved to be occupied by two maiden sisters, who taught elocution. The one who admitted me took my sam ple book, and said she would consult her sister. Soon she returned. In her hand there was a cup, a feel ing of dread seized me still, I hoped it might be tea. IS THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Would you like a cup of broth?" she asked. I glanced up quite cold with apprehension. "Clam," she replied in answer to my look. "Sis ter and I always take clam broth, it is so strengthen- ing." Again the fear of refusing crept over me, so I took the cup, thanked her, and braced myself for the ordeal. As I placed it to my lips she rose, say ing she would go and see what her sister had to say. I saw my opportunity and grasped it. Quickly emptying the contents of the cup over the root of the rubber plant on the stand beside me, and pray ing to be forgiven if it died, I prepared to greet her. The steam was still coming up from the earth when she returned, but I managed to divert her attention by a few remarks on the superior flavor of her clam broth. "Sister says we won t subscribe this time; but shan t I bring you another cup?" glancing at the empty vessel in my hand. I need not record my an swer. My next call was on a Jap, who wanted me to teach him how to speak English. He said he would 16 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT pay me more than I could make selling books or music boxes. I declined the proposition. Then I rang the bell of an artist s studio. She looked over my prospectus, did not care to subscribe, but thought I ought to do well. It was the first word of encouragement that I had received and I thanked her for it. "You look tired and not very strong/ she ob served kindly, "perhaps a cup of " Dreading what was coming I quickly said, "Thank you, I have had two cups of clam broth already." "Very nourishing! It was just what I was going to offer you." Does every one in Carnegie Hall drink clam broth? I wondered as I left the building. July, 1 3th. Did not take any orders to-day. Discouraging. Still, the manager says I am gaining experience, and that means money to a book agent. Came across a woman who wants me to canvass from house to house for a combination clothes rack and drying THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT machine. She said that she had agents working for her and making $5.00 a day, who could not make $1.00 per week selling books. I took her sample and may try it. I also met a man who told me he had fifty agents out selling a combination water filter and gas-saving attachment, each of them earning over $10.00 per day. He said "Book agents are born, not made." Perhaps this is true. He, too, gave me a sample. I receive several offers like these every day, and al though it takes up a lot of time to listen to the dif ferent propositions, some good may come out of it. July 1 4th. I spent the afternoon among the bankers and brokers on Wall Street, and a more disappointed female than I was could hardly have been found within the precinct of watered stocks and "frenzied finance." I had so often read of chorus girls and popular actresses invading this district in the cause of charity and how they left with pocketbooks filled to their utmost capacity, that I actually expected a 18 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT fair share of success, but alas! I was not a hand somely gowned chorus girl, only a shabby little book agent. So the bears snarled, and growled, and the bulls kicked, and balked at my timid appeals to their intellect and liberality. True, I had several invita tions to luncheon, and a young broker thoughtfully suggested that an automobile ride by moonlight might prove a pleasant diversion from the arduous task of canvassing but books, I sold none. Then I came across so many small boys swelling with pride, who, for petty salaries, are put at the doors or windows to keep undesirable persons from the presence of their august masters. One little fel low, about fifteen, to whom I had to tell my errand, drew up his attenuated frame as if to impress me with the importance of his position, and said: "We do not care to look at any books." "We would not purchase if we did look." "Who are we my boy ?" I asked austerely ; he wilt ed so I piled it on. "Don t you know that a great statesman once said: The only persons qualified to use the first person plural are editors and men with tapeworms, " and having rid myself of some of the spleen which I could not vent on the older cads with 19 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT whom I had come in contact, I turned haughtily away. At the next window a short, undersized young man, who was busily engaged twirling a diminutive mustache, threw me a contemptuous glance (which I pretended not to notice), and curtly demanded what I wanted. I looked out the corner of my eye at the names on the door, then smilingly asked, "Is Mr. J in?" After regarding me suspiciously he said, "No." "Well, is Mr. B in? He will do as well," I said, assuming a business-like air. His glance had followed mine, and he let me know it. "Now see here," he said, with a degree of fa miliarity that was very irritating, "I will save you the trouble of reading any more names off the door by telling you that I am put here to say No. My eyes flashed resentment, but my voice distilled honey. "Then yours is a negative position?" I queried sweetly. "Just so," he snapped, and down went the win dow with a slam. 20 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT I was fairly boiling with rage at his discourtesy, so I tapped on the pane of glass. "Don t you think you would grow a little taller if you were not so weighted down with the idea of your great importance?" I asked with assumed solicitude. Then I beat a hasty retreat, as I saw him press a button, which I knew, by my experience of a few minutes before, was to summon the elevator man to put me out, for they did not allow canvassing in that building. I am very sorry that I did not stop working a lit tle earlier, for I arrived at the office just ten min utes after the manager left. And now I will have to wait until Monday for my salary. Oh, dear ! July 1 6th. This has been a dreadful day for me full of dis appointments and annoyances. I have cried until my head aches and my eyes burn : First I went to the office to get my salary, and that horrible man who engaged me at $35.00 a week looked me coolly in the face and asked if I expected him to pay me 21 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT for nothing. It was true that I had not taken any orders. Nevertheless I had worked all the week, and I told him so, but he said it was orders that counted, not work. I argued and remonstrated in vain. He was firm. Why, he even refused to give me back the three dollars for the prospectus as he agreed to do. I was mortified and ready to cry, so I threw the prospectus on his desk and left the office. Then I walked briskly over to the other publish ers, expecting to draw my commission on eight or ders, but again I met with disappointment, for the manager said all that was due me was the $7.50 from Mr. Clemens order, as all the young men at the Grand Central office, who signed the contracts, had declined to take the books. Of course he would not pay for these. So after a hard week s work I find myself worse off than ever. I wish I had taken the advice of the manager whose firm publishes small, inexpensive books. He said, "One bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," and that if I took twenty or thirty of his lit tle books in a satchel, I could sell them as I went along and be sure of my money. Well, perhaps I will try it to-morrow. 22 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT July 1 7th. This morning I bought a satchel for $2.25 and invested $4.00 in the books suggested by Mr. Smart, of the Elite Publishing Company. Perhaps it might have been wiser to have taken the agency offered me by the Insect Powder and Corn Salve man, for, as he said, "There are more insects than book lovers, and more corns and bunions than book buyers." But I can t help feeling that a book agent is a grade higher and, unfortunately, I still have a little pride. Mr. Smart advised me to select the following books, "Gleams of Hope and Tidings of Woe," "The Success of a Self-Made Man," and "How I Won a Fortune at Monte Carlo." Now that I have packed my satchel, it seems a little heavy, but every book I sell will lighten it, and to-morrow I shall be ready for the fray. July 1 8th. My arms are quite lame from carrying that heavy satchel. Have not done so badly for the first, though. Went among the butter and cheese men. That is not a very polite way to designate men who were kind to me. I myself might not object to 23 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT being called a butter man, for there is something soft and soothing in the suggestion, but disagree able odors are too strongly associated with cheese to make the appellation pleasant. In one place I spent about half an hour vainly trying to persuade a rather amiable but stubborn young man to buy a book. He was not rude or impolite, he simply knew his own mind, and had it made up the way I did not wish him to, and no amount of persuasion on my part could induce him to change it. He unblushingly declared he had never read a book in his life, indeed, seemed quite proud of the fact, and only laughed good-naturedly when I suggested that he buy "Mother Goose s Melodies" and begin with them. Finding I could not rouse his interest, I casually inquired if there were another place of business up stairs. He advised me to save myself the trouble of going up, volunteering the information that the man who occupied the office was a Jew, and that I would only be wasting valuable time canvassing him. "You did not think my time very valuable when I was spending it with you, so I will try him. I can t do worse," I replied smilingly. 24 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Well, I will bet you half a dollar that fellow don t buy a book, or, better still," he said, with an air of assurance, "you go up, and if you sell him one, come right back to me and I will buy two. That s a go." Telling him that I looked on his proposition in the light of a legitimate business transaction, I mounted the stairs. On entering the office a very refined-looking man rose to meet me. I placed the books in his extended hand, briefly stating that I was selling them. He glanced at the titles, selected one, and handing me a dollar bill, told me to keep the change. I was in such a hurry to flaunt my triumph in the face of the young man downstairs that I don t think I showed proper appreciation of the kind act, but started on my downward course at a rapid rate, and walking into the office, flourishing my brand- new dollar bill, I told him to select one of the books. He was leaning back in a chair with his legs stretched out full length, and his hands in his pock ets, jingling some coins. Now, I have noticed that the man who always has his hands in his pockets fingering his money loves it too well to part with it 25 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT readily. Seeing that he did not make a move I advanced, saying : "Well, aren t you going to keep your word and take a book?" "What book?" he asked, pretending not to under stand. "Surely you have not forgotten the compact you made with me not ten minutes ago," I answered, somewhat surprised at his lapse of memory. "What are you doing? Trying to make me be lieve that fellow bought one?" "I am not trying anything," I replied, "simply stating the fact. He not only bought one, but gave me double the price !" "Then that lets me out ! Just count that he paid for mine," and he turned aside with a laugh. I threw him a glance more eloquent than words, and walked away in silence. July Canvassed a lot of patent medicine men and failed to sell a book to any of them. Had the offer of two agencies, one for a porous plaster and the other 26 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT for a cough syrup. I was told there was money in it, and judging from the staff of clerks and the well- appointed offices, I did not doubt it, but I could not help thinking that the hard-earned dollars of the sick and poor paid for it all. Money in it ! I know there is, for a great number of persons acquire the patent-medicine habit just as others do the absinthe, cocaine, opium and other vicious habits, and in many instances the effects are just as bad. Of course there are exceptions to every rule, and even the patent medicine has its exceptions, and the fact that some of these venerable compounds were used by our great-grandmothers proves their harm- lessness if not their efficacy. Now I don t mean to decry what I was taught by my elders to respect I refer to the new-fangled nostrums, the anti-fats, and the anti-leans, the ba cilli exterminators, the lacto-this and the lacto-that. On these I have determined to wage a war of ex termination by writing them down in this diary as humbugs and dangerous compounds. I really don t know what they are made of, but what matters? When one is thirsting for revenge one does not stop 27 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT to analyze things, and I certainly am justified in fostering this feeling, for I was treated very badly at some of the offices where I called to-day. In one place they did not even permit me to cross the threshold. I was spoken to through a small aperture in a bolted door, and then unceremoniously turned away. It looked to me as if they were afraid I had some contagious disease. Now, if they thought this was the case, they could easily have rendered me non-infectious by spraying me with some of their deodorized disinfectant, and giving me a few doses of the bacilli exterminator. I would willingly have submitted to this treatment for the sake of selling a half dozen books, but they did not propose it, and I would have returned home with an empty purse, but for a tea merchant, who kindly bought five copies and presented them to his clerks. July 20th. I don t suppose that all the well-to-do men whom I saw to-day meant to be unkind, but one after the other just said "No." Some of them did not even 28 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT take the trouble to look up. At one time I was so discouraged that I sat on the stairs in a hallway and actually cried. But at last I came across that rara avis, an un selfish old bachelor, who bought four books. He also gave me a list with the names of several friends and advised me to call on them. I think he noticed that I was very tired and listless, for he bade me remember that push was an adjunct to suc cess. Now I knew that I hadn t very much of that com modity in my composition, but I thanked him and said that I would bear it in mind. And I did, for with more assurance than usual, I opened the door of the office that faced his and stepped in bravely. A man who was lounging in a large easy chair raised his head and looked at me out of half-closed lids, then drew himself up to a sitting position. "What s what s the trouble now?" he asked, blinking and smiling inanely. His voice was very thick and his eyes were red, and 7 saw what the trouble was. "I am trying to sell some small, inexpensive 29 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT books," I replied hesitatingly. Then I started to follow my courage which had already fled, but he caught hold of my dress. "How am I to know if I want any of your books if you don t show them to me !" he said, drawing me toward him. I did not reply. I was too busy trying to squirm out of his arms. "Don t try to run away, little girl, I won t eat you," he said, and pulling me down on his knee he began jogging me up and down to the tune of "Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross." To say I was making an effort to get up is putting it mildly. Suddenly the door opened, and a woman appeared. For an instant she stood on the thresh old surveying the scene with blazing eyes; indeed, she looked for all the world as if she were about to devour me, then she dashed over to where the man sat in stupid confusion. "So this is the use you make of your office, is it?" she asked with withering contempt. I had risen and was standing beside him. "Madam," I said, "permit me to explain " "You will explain nothing, you bold, audacious 3Q THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT creature !" and taking me by the arm she pushed me out of the office and closed the door. I opened it again, for I was furious. "You must hear what I have to say," I cried in dignantly. I got no further, for she simply would not listen. "If you remain a moment longer I will have you ejected from the building, so you had better go," she said, pointing to the elevator. I was thoroughly humiliated, outraged, but was powerless to resent the insult. Work was simply impossible, so I came home. July 2 1 st. I have done so poorly, scarcely making expenses, that Mr. Smart thought I had better try some sub urban town and work among the women. Bayonne suggested itself to me, so I crossed the ferry and took the trolley to save expenses. I sold six books, but had to work very hard to do it; might have done better but for the free libraries. A book agent whom I met in a restaurant where I took lunch said : "Carnegie ought to be made to support all f e- 31 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT male book agents, as his libraries have killed the book business." I don t know anything about that, but I do know I am getting dreadfully nervous, and it is no won der, for I have to come in contact with so many horrid people. One woman was so enraged because I rang the front door bell instead of going around to the back that she threw a tin cuspidor at me, which I barely escaped by ducking. An old man, who keeps a shoemaker s shop next door, to whom I told my adventure, said I was in a very common neighborhood, and bluntly added: "If you can t tackle the biggis bug in the city you ain t fit for the business ; better git out of it." Well, I followed his advice, and went in the di rection he suggested, but I didn t fare much better. True, a woman on whom I called received me kindly and bought a copy of "Gleams of Hope and Tidings of Woe," but she was the exception, for she invited me into her parlor and entertained me pleasantly. In the course of conversation she told me how very expensive her chairs were, that the satin with which they were upholstered cost $18.00 3.2 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT per yard, that she was exceedingly choice of them, and hated to have people sit on them, especially fat people. She also informed me that her ancestors were regular "English Angular- Saxons," but that she was born and brought up in Missouri. How ever, she was very kind, and I appreciated it. Her next-door neighbor, a large coarse-looking woman, was a decided contrast. I was talking to her daughter at the door when she made her ap pearance. "Just tell that woman we don t need no books," she shouted, and dragging the girl in the hallway she slammed the door in my face. I was white with rage, but collecting myself, I rang the bell again. Her daughter answered it. "You will pardon me, my dear," I said loud enough for her mother, who stood in the back ground, to hear. "Will you kindly tell that person there is a book which she sadly needs. It is one on etiquette and good manners," and without waiting for the consequences I ran down the steps. Met the unselfish old bachelor as I was crossing the City Hall Park. He recognized me and stopped to inquire how I was getting on. Very kind of 33 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT him, but I didn t feel a bit grateful for his interest. One doesn t usually like to admit that one is a failure. Dear me! how I dread the unpleasant possibili ties of to-morrow. Just now I am so discouraged that I feel like giving up the book business, for I have barely made my bread at it, and I do love but ter and trimmings! Besides, my snoes are giving out. I really believe the water filter man was right when he said: "Book agents are born, not made." Indeed, I don t think I was cut out to be an agent of any sort, and to-morrow, if I am in the same frame of mind, I shall get rid of this accumulation of money-making samples. It wouldn t be a bad idea to send them to one of the bureaus where they distribute useful articles to the deserving poor. The following is a list : i Music Box. I Musical Timekeeper. I Improved Clothes Rack. i Combination Water Filter and Gas-Saving At tachment. i Adjustable Baby Chair and Cradle. i Automatic Feather Duster. i Combination Lawn Mower and Carpet Sweeper. 34 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT I Reversible Egg Beater and Apple Corer. i Bottle Embalming Fluid. i Box of Predigested Codfish. i Box of Antiseptic Corn Salve. i Package of Invisible Insect Powder. The remaining copies of the "Self-Made Man" and "How I Won a Fortune at Monte Carlo" I will probably send to a male orphan asylum. July 23d. This morning when I called on Mr. Smart of the "Elite Publishing Company," to tell him that I had concluded to give up the agency for his books, he would not hear of it, declaring that I had not given it a fair trial, and was too easily discouraged. He made so many suggestions, finally offering to ad vance me sufficient money to defray my expenses for two weeks, that I decided to continue with him. Perhaps I was influenced in this decision by a woman who occupies the room that adjoins mine. She is an agent for toilet articles, and has promised to give me some instruction on canvassing. As a rule, I don t like to be on intimate terms 35 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT with the inmates of houses in which I rent fur nished rooms. They may be very good people (the women kind), but they are generally made up of two classes one which ought to be left alone, and the other that want to be left alone. After the occupant is gone the vacant room usu ally tells its own story, either by an array of empty bromo seltzer and whisky bottles, or the refuse of stale bread and other edibles, evidence of the scanty, hurriedly gotten meals, cooked and eaten in stealth, with the dreaded knock of the landlady an ever- present menace to their enjoyment and digestion. However, my new acquaintance, I fancy, is an exception. She informed me she had twenty years experience as an agent, has traveled all over the States, and sold all sorts of goods. To-morrow I am to take my first lesson on how to become a suc cessful agent. July 24tH. Well, my neighbor called to see me, and after looking over my stock of books, bluntly said she did not think I could make a living selling such cheap stuff. THE DIARY O A BOOK AGENT I told her of my non-success with Mark Twain s works, which I attributed to my inability to sell ex pensive books. "Your failure," she observed, depositing her am ple but compact person between the arms of the Morris chair, "was due to lack of experience and as surance. "I too, was a failure when I first started out," she went on to say encouragingly. "I had no expe rience, was also handicapped by a diffident shrinking nature, and never succeeded until I discovered that timidity and modesty were very nice adjuncts to drawing-room manners, but a great drawback to the woman who had to make her living in the busi ness arena. Twenty years of knocking about the world has made a very different person of me." To my query if she thought I would do better canvassing women, she shook her head thoughtfully and said: "No; I don t think you would do as well. Man is woman s best friend, and judging from my expe rience, I would not advise it. I have received some pretty rough treatment from the hands of the gentle, sex. You will hardly credit it, but I assure THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT you they have set dogs on me, shut the doors in my face when the rain was pouring down, played the hose on me, and I don t know what else. "To say nothing," she continued in a satirical tone, "of the time I wasted among the so-called bet ter class, sitting in parlors waiting until My lady adorned her person, only to come down and say No or Call again. I believe if I had all the money I have paid out for car fare every time I called again, only to hear My husband says no, I could put up at a swell hotel. "By all means stick to the men and you will come out all right," she advised; "but you must use tact, always use tact with a man. Treat him as you would a bucking steer, dodge all around when you wish to make a successful attack, and you will get the best of him. Widows understand this, that is w r hy they make such good agents they have had the experience." "Then you are a widow?" I ventured. She replied that she was not exactly a widow, that some years ago she had married a man in the same line of business, but I knew what the but meant, and tried to turn the 38 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT conversation by saying that it must have been very pleasant for them to travel together. "That is just what we did not do," was her quick reply. "I traveled one way, he traveled another, and soon his love went traveling some other way. It is all very well for the poet to say, Absence makes the heart grow fonder/ but he never had any experience with a traveling man s heart." Then with a little nervous laugh she said, "But T have not yet told you my name. It is Mrs. Burns but call me Burns, or, better still, Bess just plain Bess will do. I am going to take you under my wing, so there must be no formalities between us." I took the hand she held out to seal our compact of friendship, for there was something very attract ive in the unconventional manner and pleasant face of this strange woman. "Now," she said in a sharp, business-like way, "to-morrow, when you start out, just make up your mind that you are going to sell your books, and you will sell them. Do you know," she observed with a look of pride, "that I have frequently sold things to people who did not have the slightest use for 39 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT them? Once I induced a respectable old parson to subscribe for a year to a sporting paper by suggest ing that he could find material in it to make up a series of sermons on gambling and other vices. Then, again, I influenced a fifteen-year-old unmar ried girl to buy a baby s rattle by telling her it would come in useful some future day. Another time I made a young man buy a dog collar, and then he had to go out and buy the dog to wear the col lar." "Oh, there is no end to the possibilities of the competent agent," she remarked thoughtfully. "Now I make $6.00 or $7.00 a day selling toilet articles," here she lowered her voice to a confidential whisper, "and they are the worst kind of rubbish on the market. "I really believe," she continued, with a hearty laugh, "that if the shaving soap were left long enough on a man s face it would take the hair off without the use of a razor. As for the face bleach it is a veritable skin destroyer, while the hair tonic is such harmless stuff that it could be rubbed all over a lady s face for a decade with full assur ance that it would never raise a beard or mustache. THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Let me tell you, my dear, results do not depend entirely on the goods you are selling. Your knowl edge of human nature, together with a certain amount of confidence in yourself, counts every time. To be successful, an agent must be resourceful, per suasive, inventive, should have a conscience like good elastic and a little of the ability that made Munchausen famous. "Now, you don t possess these qualities, so you must cultivate tact; you will find it a wonderful weapon with which to fight the battle of life. Here endeth the first lesson." And she wished me good night. July 25th. Started out this morning fully determined to be tactful and persuasive, but the result was a com plete failure. After some consideration, I decided to work among the machinists, thinking I would find them in sympathy with a woman who had to earn her living, but I can t say that I did. For they were just as indifferent as their more aristocratic brothers. Just as full of slang and silly jests, and 41 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT just as suggestive and familiar as some of the fash ionable club men that I have met. One chucked me under the chin, and remarked it was a wife, not a book, he needed! Another said he would like to take me to Coney Island, and a third offered to buy me out, if I would dance a breakdown for him. I was just about to leave in disgust when a re spectable-looking man touched me on the shoulder, saying at the same time : "Lady, don t mind those men. If you will just step this way, I think some of us here may buy a book or two from you." A few feet away I found a group of different looking men drinking coffee, instead of beer, out of tin cans. After looking the books over three of them bought copies of the "Self-made Man." The unselfish old bachelor lunched at the same restaurant that I did to-day. I think he saw me going in and concluded to try it. He sent the waitress to ask if I would like a plate of ice cream. I suppose he thought I could not afford to indulge in ice cream at my own expense. I refused of course. I hate charity and sympathy. 42 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT July 26th. I hardly know which I dread the most, telephones or typists. This morning for instance, I felt so sure that I was going to sell a book that visions of a lobster salad floated appetizingly before my mind s eye,when lo ! the telephone bell and my young man, whom I knew to be a weakling from the pretty dimple in his chin, flew to answer the call the con sequence was a glass of milk and shredded wheat biscuits for lunch. Later in the day a horrid typist prevented me from selling two books. I had only been in the private office a few minutes when she entered, pen cil in hand, and reminded her employer that it was time to dictate his letters. What a showy-looking creature she is, and how consequential ! "Why, she actually glared at him when he said, I think I will take these two. Then as his eyes met hers, she smiled sweetly, and offered the unsolicited information that books were a drug on the market. Of course, she carried her point he did not sub scribe, but I experienced a fiendish joy when the 43 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT cuff of my sleeve caught in her box of Huyler s and its contents strewed the floor. I was not in a very pleasant mood when I opened the door of the adjoining office, where another typist greeted me and my eyes flashed combatively as with decided abruptness I said. "Is Mr. B. in?" The gentle "No, he is not," and the suggestion that I sit and rest awhile was so unusual that I was quite taken by surprise. Her voice was very sweet, her manner infinitely soothing after my recent en counter, and in a short time I found myself telling her some of my many troubles and trying expe riences. When I rose to leave she pressed a coin in my hand, and whispered, "For car fare," and as I looked into her kind face I realized that there were different types of typists. Nevertheless, I believe that if I could muzzle the typists, and disconnect the telephones, I would make a success of the book business. July 27th. The "U.O.B.," as Bess dubbed him, was just about to order his lunch when we dropped in at the res- 44 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT taurant this noon. He sat at the next table. I did not speak to him, just nodded. Bess says he isn t old doesn t think he is more than forty-two. During six hours of steady work I had sold only four books. I was very tired, but hated to give up. Why not try here, I thought, peering down on a sign projecting from a basement window, and down the steps I went. Hundreds of soiled towels, bars of soap, bottles of blueing and washing fluid greeted my vision while my sense of smell was regaled by the com bined odors of whisky and tobacco smoke. Dis order and confusion reigned supreme in this little pokey place, but I was soon to learn that it was occupied by a gentleman. The gentleman was sitting near the door, with his feet cocked up on the table, a pipe in his mouth, a derby hat perched on the back of his head, and his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He was writing very laboredly with a pencil in a small, well thumbed, greasy-looking little book. I stood for a second, then decided not to enter; but as I turned to leave his eye caught my retreat ing figure, and he inquired what I wanted. Of 45 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT course, I had to account for my presence, so much against my inclination, I stepped into the room, told him I was selling some little books, and asked if he would like to look at them. He rolled his liquid red orbs on me slowly, and shifting the pipe in an uncertain sort of way from one side of his mouth to the other, blurted out : "I like your gall, come bothering a gentleman in his office when you see him writing up his books." The gentleman, the office and the books struck me as being such a funny combination, that uncon sciously I must have smiled, for he gave me an ugly look, and pointing with his stubby pencil to the exit toward which I was already backing, he shouted : "See that door ! Just git !" As I had no desire to linger in the presence of the "Proprietor of the International Towel Supply Company," it did not take me long to obey orders. Nor did I "git" a moment too soon, for as I glanced back I saw him reach forward, then some thing came whizzing over my head, and a bar of soap landed in front of me. I was feeling quite blue, so called on friend Bess for advice. Found her very sympathetic and inter- THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT ested. She said that having disposed of all the goods she had on hand, her time was her own while awaiting instructions, and that she would place it at my disposal. I did not exactly understand what she planned doing was too sleepy to ask. She is to call me early in the morning. July 28th. Went with Bess this A. M. to select a book that will yield a larger profit than those I have been sell ing. After looking over the catalogue for some time, her eyes caught a title which she pronounced a money maker, it was, "How to Better the Condi tion of the Poor Without Financial Aid." She immediately put ten copies in the satchel and ordered fifty sent home. When we came out of the publisher s she announced her intention of going around with me and showing me how to canvass. The first place at which we called was a whole sale linen house. We did not know the name of any member of the firm, so Bess asked to see the man ager and was shown into his private office. 47 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT In a few brief sentences she explained the nature of our call, told him of the hard struggle I was having, of my lack of experience, etc., and con cluded with, "Now, from what I have heard of your kind and sympathetic nature, I am sure you will not do less than your next-door neighbor, who told us to call." He was a very amiable-looking man, with soft-blue eyes, and glancing at me pleas antly, he inquired : "How many copies did Mr. Rogers take ?" I was about to ask who Mr. Rogers was, when Bess quickly said : "Three," and tendered him the like number, which he paid for without a quibble. After thank ing him, she begged to be allowed to canvass the clerks, stating that Mr. Rogers had granted us that privilege. Having obtained permission, she walked quickly down the store, and up to a group of men who were standing near the door. Saluting them with a hearty "Good morning, gen tlemen," she said, "Your manager took three of these books, and requests that you each buy one to help this young lady along." She then took several of the little volumes out of the satchel. 48 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT As soon as she said "books" the group began to disperse. One started for the office, another sud denly found that the goods on a distant counter had to be arranged. I could see that the others were looking for a way to escape. So did Bess, but, pre tending not to notice it, she thanked them for their attention, and started in. What she said did not amount to much, but it had the desired effect. She began by telling them that their mothers were women, that if they had sisters they were women. Of course, this was not news to them, but it made them very polite listeners. Warming up to the subject she continued: "This girl is a woman and is trying to make an honest living, and, as American men, I know you will willingly patronize her." Then she went on to tell them that it was on ac count of the American man that she was proud of being an American. Here she placed the books in the hand of a fatherly looking man, who said he would take one. After making a selection he passed them to a cadaverous-looking youth, with a squinty gray eye, who accepted them rather reluctantly. Bess watched him closely, then in a voice full of 49 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT emotion, remarked that he was the living image of a brother whom she had not seen for years, and who was the dearest boy on earth. That decided him, and he took one. I looked up quite surprised, for only this morning she told me that she was an only child. The last of the group declared he had so many books that he did not care for any more, but when she affirmed that from his accent she knew he was a Southern man, adding that she was a Southern woman, and that he could not go back on her, he, too, capitulated and took one. Before leaving she inquired if Mr. Rogers were on the right or left. Having obtained the desired information, she lost no time in seeking an interview. Mr. Rogers was a small, nervous-looking man, with an air of hurry about him. Very abruptly he inquired what we wished to see him about. Bess replied to this question in a very concise manner, offering the excuse that the manager next door, who bought three books, had suggested our calling. With the reply that he was very much obliged to Mr. Morse, but that he had neither time nor money 50 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT for books, he turned curtly away ; but Bess s eye had caught this little printed sign tacked on the door : "We Give to Charity Organizations." And she was after him in a flash. Before he could re-enter his office she fairly thrust in front of him the red cover with the attractive title in clear white letters, "How to Better the Condition of the Poor Without Financial Aid." I was too far away to hear the argument she used, but I saw him put the book under his arm, and she returned with a two-dollar bill. As the day advanced it was really interesting to see how quickly she could adapt herself to persons and circumstances to further a purpose. If inter viewing an Eastern man, she was from the East, if a Western, she was from the West. Her place of birth was changed so many times to suit the occasion that I think it embraced every State in the Union; while her parents were English, Irish, French or German, as the situation required. One of her best cards was the resemblance business. In most 51 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT cases it worked like a charm. I think she must have found about a dozen counterparts of her fa ther, and just as many of her brother; each differed in type, and style, but every one of them seemed to be flattered by the coincidence. All this she called tact, and the results proved that it worked well, for the satchel was empty be fore noon. The rain was pouring dreadfully when Bess and I came out of the restaurant. The "U. O. B.," who was there as usual, hurried after us and offered his umbrella. I was about to refuse it, but Bess pinched me. "Your mother?" he asked as he handed it to me. "No," Bess said quickly, "only a protecting arm." He inclined his head very slowly and gave her a searching look, which she returned with interest. "He isn t eating in that cheap restaurant for nothing," she said with a parting stare. I don t think she likes him, well, I don t believe I do, either; strange, too, for he is very kind and not bad looking. 52 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT July 30th. This has been a pleasant and profitable day. Bess went canvassing with me, and we had no difficulty in disposing of a dozen books before luncheon. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred until we were passing a popular theatre. The usual Satur day matinee crowd was commencing to assemble. We were elbowing our way through the fashion ably dressed throng, when suddenly Bess stopped. "How would you like to go to the matinee?" she asked, with a smile. For answer I stuck out a foot and pointing down ward said : "Shoes before shows." After a few moments deliberation she tapped me confidentially on the shoulder and whispered : "Just follow me in, and see me get two tickets out of old man ." Quite elated at the prospect of a little diversion, I glibly inquired if she were acquainted with him. She gave me a quizzical glance and said: "No more than you are; but if I can get him to think I am, it will serve my purpose just as well. Noth ing ventured nothing have. S3 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT So saying, she walked up to the box office and asked to see Mr. . Her disappointment was so apparent when told that he was at home, sick with the gout, that the polite box office clerk sug gested she see Mr. David , the younger son. In a second she brightened up, took a card from her pocket, wrote a few lines on it, and gave it to the boy who had been summoned to deliver her message. "Now all depends on the way I play my part," she remarked sotto voce, as we were being con ducted to the private office. On entering the room Bess extended her hand to a short, heavily-built young man, who introduced himself as Mr. , and looking him steadily in the eye with cool deliberation, asked : "Have I got to tell you who I am?" "You certainly have the advantage of me, madam," he replied with a slight inclination of the head. "Look me in the face and then dare to tell me you don t remember me," and she smilingly held up her face for his inspection. 54 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT The young man did as she requested, then slowly shook his head, as if trying to recollect. "And I flattered myself that you had not for gotten me," she said with an air of well-feigned dis appointment. "Don t you remember Aunt Lottie who used to give you all the nice cookies and doughnuts ? Aunt Lottie who lived next door to you?" she purred sweetly. But he continued to shake his head, thus mutely denying all recollection of her and the cookies. She thought a moment, then took another tack : "You certainly have an ungrateful, treacherous memory, Dave ," she remarked playfully. "Why, every time your mother was going to punish you, or give you a bath, you would run to hide in Aunt Lottie s apartment, don t you remember that?" And she beamed on him tenderly. A smile played about his mouth. It did not es cape her notice. The light of memory seemed to be slowly dawning, so she quickly followed with : "And many a time did you beg Aunt Lottie to give you the bath, because she didn t scrub you quite so 55 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT hard. Oh ! how you did hate to be washed." And her laughter filled the office. Her enjoyment of the recollection was so hearty and genuine that I joined in the laugh, then he laughed, too, and jestingly covering his face with his hands, he said : "Mother always vowed I was the dirtiest little kid she ever owned." She had struck the right course. "It does seem awfully stupid of me to forget you, but I must have been such a little shaver," he said apologetically. "Yes, you were a very small shaver then, and a very big man now ; but not too big a man for me to kiss," and before he had time to protest (if he wanted to), she landed a kiss on each cheek. He grew very red in the face, and looked as though he wondered if she thought he had grown too big for a bath. Ere the blush had faded from his countenance Bess became very pensive. Seating herself de murely in the large office chair, she fidgeted un easily with the catch on the satchel. Presently she pushed it back, opened the satchel and hesitatingly extracted two books. 56 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Dave," she said with a timid break in her voice, "I am selling these books to raise sufficient money to send my daughter back to Vassar." She placed her hand affectionately on my shoulder. "You see, her father s death left me without means, so I was compelled to take her from college; but she is just dying to go back, and as I know what an education means to a woman nowadays, I am making a great effort to gratify her ambition. Dave," she con tinued, leaning forward, "I am almost ashamed to ask it, but will you take one or two of these books to help me out?" He glanced sympathizingly at me, then turned to her. "What do they cost, and how many have you there?" he inquired, peering good-naturedly into the satchel. She told him the price and started to count the books. "Oh, never mind to count them, I ll take the whole bunch," and he handed her a five-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change. "And now I want you to go right up to the house and see the folks, I know mother will be glad to see 57 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT you," he said, giving her the address and directions how to reach his house. Bess seemed a little troubled, but she took the card and rose to leave. The interview appeared to be over. So far nothing had been said about the tickets, and it looked as though we would have to leave without them, but I soon found out that she was not quite through, for at the door she turned and casually asked: "How is business? Drawing large houses?" "Crowds ! Turning away people at every per formance," he replied with enthusiasm. "Dear me," sighed Bess, "and we came hoping to secure tickets." "Not a seat for sale ; but you can have the use of our box, Aunt Lottie. I will call you so for old times sake," he said gallantly. And escorting us to the door of the theatre he placed us in charge of an usher. "A private box at the opera! Well, he really could not do less for his Aunt Lottie," and settling back pompously in her chair she surveyed the au dience with critical hauteur. "No harm had been done, no one injured, or 58 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT wronged," reasoned Bess thoughtfully on her way home. "The whole thing is only a practical joke." This was said in answer to a protest from me. "Don t be afraid, my child," she remarked as I walked silently by her side. "I won t set you any bad examples. I sometimes resort to a harmless white lie, but I have never done anything that would make me ashamed to look my conscience in the face. It won t be long before you learn how little is ac complished by truthful, straightforward methods," she continued, looking as serious as her round, dim pled face would permit. "Would we have gotten the tickets if I had told him you were dying to see the opera, but had to buy shoes? I guess not! You have tried to sell books on straight lines. How many have you sold? I have resorted to the tricks of the trade, how many have you seen me sell ?" I did not reply. I was thinking hard, and won dering if I really cared to be a business woman un der such conditions. Later in the evening I took tea with Bess, and while talking over our experience she informed me that many of the things she had said and donq 59 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT were to demonstrate forcibly just how much could be accomplished by assurance and tact. July 3 1 st. "Can a man run into a closet to hide from a woman and emerge from it feeling that he is every whit a man?" This is the question I put to Bess before telling her of my early morning s adventure. "It depends entirely on the size of the man," was her epigrammatic reply. That set me thinking how very small those two young men must be, who, just as soon as they caught a glimpse of me coming up the steps with the books they had ordered on Saturday, ran helter- skelter into a closet, and actually shut themselves in. At first I felt annoyed, then I thought I would have some fun for my trouble, so I walked noise lessly over to the closet, quietly turned the key in the door, and left the office. N. B. Never hide in a closet and leave the key in the lock. 60 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT August ist. PROGRESSIVE WATCHMAN WASHINGTON BEECHER THOMPSON PROPRIETOR This was what I read on the door of an office this morning. Then I turned the knob and entered a well-groomed colored man advanced to meet me I hesitated before saying: "I represent the Elite Publishing Company. "A book agent ?" The disdainful elevation of his nose did not es cape my notice, and I humbly acknowledged that I followed the despised calling. "My dear madam, don t you know that a news paper office is a poor place in which to sell books?" he remarked in a dignified, solemn manner. As soon as he said newspaper office I looked around for the door. He smiled reassuringly. "So you are trying to sell books?" the tone was decidedly condescending. "Well, we will grant you an interview," and crossing over to a door bearing 61 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT the inscription, "City Editor," he threw it open. "Kindly walk into the sanctum sanctimonous." "What a fine sense of humor," I mused, as I crossed the threshold and dropped into the seat near the desk. "Let me inform you, my dear lady," he observed, settling back comfortably in his chair, "that we never purchase books, for the simple reason that the publishers send us tons upon tons of them. You see, they knows that the Watchman has an enormous circulation, and so, of course, they are desirous to ascertain the stamp of its approval, realizing as they does that on its staff are men endued with great in tellectualities, brainy thinkers, who try to disencour- age ratiocinations, and the individual development of man s brains, as an independent thinking ma chine." I shifted uneasily from one side of my chair to the other. Was I so nervous that I could not hear correctly, or was the phrasing too far above my limited intellect? Surely an editor is an editor, black or white, and an editor can never be wrong. So I leaned forward, all attention. After an ef fective pause he took a deep breath. 62 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Madam," he thundered, with inflated chest, "have you ever given consideration to the pernicious characteristics of promiscuous literature, issued by inscrupulous men with but one object in review financial gain?" I really was at a loss what to say, so I dumbly shook my head, and rose to leave ; but he waved me back majestically. "Then, madam, let me tell you, that is the reason why the Watchman voluminously declars that all literary outputs must be pro bunco republico!" This sort of Latin was too much for me, so I placed the books in my satchel and made a hasty retreat. On my way down I remarked to the elevator boy that I was just from an interview with the repre sentative editor of his race. "That weren t no editor you saw, ma am," he said sneeringly. "That s only the office man. Mr. Thompson been gone to Washington for over a week." This morning I proposed taking the "U. O. B. s" umbrella to his office, but Bess said "No" so per emptorily that I dropped the subject. When I came 63 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT home the umbrella was gone, and so was Bess. She hasn t said a word to me about it, but I know she has taken it back. She is certainly acting queerly. Aug. 2d. "I am sorry, but I can t buy any books out of the question can t afford it." So said the proprie tor of a circulating agency that I canvassed this morning. I looked from the diamond horseshoe pin flash ing dazzlingly in the soft folds of his red satin tie to the brilliant solitaire that glittered on his ringer ; and I looked what I thought he winced. "I really don t want them perhaps the truth suits you better," and he laughed pleasantly. "Try these men you have my permission." But it did not take me long to discover that the hundred or more of seedily clothed men whom he employed to address envelopes were too poor to spend money for anything but necessities. A sad- faced old man told me he made only sixty or seventy cents per day. "Just enough to keep body and soul together." 64 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "Can t you get anything else to do that would pay you better?" I asked, taking the seat beside him. "Ah, my dear, I am one of those unfortunates for whom the world has no use a poor old man," he said wearily. "Not so long ago I held a responsible position in a wealthy concern went there when a mere lad, and worked my way up. But as the years came piling on, they commenced sending me step by step down the ladder I had climbed. Well, I had grown old, and what could I do," he said, in a piping, plaintive voice. "I came earlier than any of the other clerks, I left later; but it was no use I tell you, my child, the good Lord knew what He was about when he set the allotted time for man. I have exceeded the limit that is all that is all." After I had swallowed two or three times and blinked away the mist from my eyes, I rose to go. "I am coming to see you again if you will let me," I said, in a low, coaxing tone. He smiled acquiescently, then his hand went fum bling into his edge-frayed vest pocket. "See here, you have lost lots of time talking to me, and I am 65 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT going to divide this with you," and he held up a ten- cent piece. "J ust gi ye me a nickel." It was in vain that I told him I would not take it ; in vain I assured him I did not need the money. He was so insistent that I had to accept it. But for once my wits came to my aid, and prompted me to do the right thing. Selecting a twenty-five cent piece from my purse I placed it in his hand, saying : "Well! to please you, I will take it." He did not look at the change, and I was glad when it was safely lodged in his pocket. Oh, dear, I wish I were a millionaire. A great thinker like Emerson said that popular charities and the educating of fools at colleges would never get a dollar of his money, and I am not ashamed to say the same. Right here is where I would put some of mine. The "U. O. B." is to call this evening. Bess never told me she had invited him until a few minutes ago. Aug. 3 d. I came home to-day with my satchel nearly empty. Bess says she is quite proud of her pupil. 66 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT Canvassed Washington Street and around Wash ington Market this A. M., and sold nine books. The profit was only $1.25, but what pleased and sur prised me was the fact that I came in contact with men who were gentlemen, in the broad and true ac ceptation of the term courteous, polite and kind. Even when they refused to buy it was done with real consideration. Indeed, I was so elated by the treatment I re ceived that I took the cars and rode up to Goose Market. Dear me, one would hardly imagine there was any difference between "Washington" and "Goose" market, but there is, and a great one. No kind refusals, no purchases, no offers of fruit, etc. I worked for several hours without selling a book, and met with such a lot of disagreeable men. One told me it was not customary for ladies to come down there after three P. M. I begged he would pardon my ignorance of the delicate distinc tion of Goose Market etiquette. Aug. 3d. Sold seven books to-day. Not so bad. After a fruitless canvass of six floors in a large 67 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT office building, I came across a lad with sufficient love for classic literature to purchase "How I Won a Fortune at Monte Carlo." He was a pleasant lit tle fellow, and he gave me the name of a party on the floor below who he thought would also take a copy. Of course I went right down. All persuasion failed to make this young man buy a book, but he went away promising to send a friend who he thought would like one. In a few minutes the friend came out of an inner office. He, too, did not care to get any books, but would send a friend who he felt sure would. His friend said pre cisely the same thing, and retired to be replaced by another friend who in turn sent another friend. I did not find this sort of business profitable, but was taking my chances of making a sale. While innocently waiting for the next friend, a tall, heav ily built, energetic-looking man, bristling with ex citement, appeared in the doorway, and in a voice that would have scared the life out of any woman but a book agent, shouted: "Madam, I demand that you leave this office im mediately. You are demoralizing my entire staff of clerks, and impeding the progress of my business; 68 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT besides, these young men have no intention of buy ing any books. They are only jollying each other." "Under these circumstances, you might have a little consideration for me, sir," I ventured by way of mild rebuke. I seemed to have been unfortunate in the selection of the word "consideration," for he yelled: "Consideration! Consideration! That is the best thing I have heard for a long time. Con sideration for a book agent who comes into my of fice and boldly interviews half a dozen young men!" "I am seeking business in a perfectly legitimate manner," I remarked, trying to defend myself. "If we want books we know where to find them. I have made a cast-iron rule never to purchase from agents, or permit them to go through my offices, and I don t propose to have it broken," he replied sharply. "A very good rule, but it s a poor one that doesn t work both ways," said a voice from behind. I turned to see who the speaker was, and found myself looking into a face that bore the stamp of high living and good nature. "What makes you so hard on the girl, Bell?" asked the owner of the face. The only reply he got 69 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT was a meaningless laugh. "I ll be d d!" said the stranger emphatically, "but you fellows hound a man to death to get your business, then go to work and bully a poor little woman for doing the same thing. Take a little of your own medicine, man ; it will do you good," and he slapped him of the iron rule familiarly on the back. My defender had evidently just dined, and the scent that hung round him still was more suggestive of the vine than the rose, but I gave him a grateful look and slipped quietly out of the office. I don t know whether the lump in my throat was caused by a sensitive nature or a bad temper, but it was some time before I got rid of it and resumed work, I was so nervous and timid, however, that I could not sell another book, so I stopped trying, and came home with a wretched headache. He is taking us to the theatre this evening. His sister is going also. Says he wants me to meet her. Somehow I don t think she will like me. Aug. 4th. The two weeks that I agreed to work for the "Elite Publishing Company" expired to-day, and I 70 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT had such a disagreeable time this morning with a horrid old lawyer that I gave up positively dis gusted. After threading my way through two dark, dingy offices, which were literally filled with dirty-looking old books, I stood in the doorway of a third room marked "Private/ and somewhat afraid of the gloomy stillness, peeped in cautiously. Musty, dust-covered books bound in aged calf, greeted me on every side ; they lined the walls, they strewed the floor, they were piled on tables and on chairs. In fact, every available nook and corner was filled with papers and books that fairly vied with each other in age and dust. Near the only window from which the light was not excluded by the time-worn books sat a withered- up old man writing with an antiquated quill pen. My experience of yesterday had sapped my courage, so instead of entering I stood on the threshold of the door and cleared my throat, hoping to attract his attention; but as he did not look up, I ap proached a little nearer and coughed. Still he went on writing. Then I walked over to his desk and coughed again, but he never raised his eyes. 71 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT After waiting a few minutes, I decided not to dis turb him, and was trying to get out as noiselessly as I could, when the folds of my dress caught in a pile of old papers on a chair and as they fluttered to the floor he looked up with a start and a smile. "Well! Well! When did you get here?" he said, rising and taking both my hands in his. I told him I was sorry to disappoint him, but that I was not the person he was evidently expecting. He took no notice of what I was saying, and still keeping hold of my hands, conducted me to a chair. "I am only a stranger," I said, as I took the seat beside him. "Just a " "You must speak a little louder, my dear," he re quested before I had finished my sentence. "Didn t your father tell you I was deaf?" "I am not the person you are evidently expect ing," I said in a higher key. "Can t hear a word terrible affliction been like this for twenty years," and he tapped his ears with the tips of his fingers. "Grows worse and worse every day tried everything no use." He was a very old man, with a queer little face covered with a grizzly beard, but it was a kind, 72 pleasant-looking face. And I really felt sorry for him and did tell him so, but he only smiled blandly and asked : "Had your lunch?" I nodded my head and said "Yes." "Where did you eat it?" I had to answer so I shouted, "In my room." "In Rome, eh? Well, that s a long time ago. We ll go and get something to eat." "No! No!" I yelled, making a desperate effort for him to hear me. "Oh, yes, you must be hungry." And he crossed over to his desk, and commenced gathering up the papers. "Don t look a bit like your father," he said, paus ing to look at me over the gold rim of his spectacles. "Twenty years between us I was the first and he the last." By this remark I found out that he had mistaken me for his niece, and as my only thought now was how to get out of his office, I picked up an ear trum pet that was lying on the desk and screeched in his ear: "I am not your niece !" 73 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT "What doesn t look nice?" he asked kindly. "Your dress?" I shook my head. "Your hat?" Again I replied in the negative, vainly trying to make him hear. "Looks quite well enough to go out with an old man like me; however, we will buy you a new one. But you must learn to speak a little more distinctly," and he patted me under the chin. I was fairly at my wits end to make the old man understand me, so seizing a pen I \vrote : "I am not your niece, only a book agent," and placing the slip of paper in his hand awaited re sults. I had not long to wait. Talk of lightning changes, nothing ever surpassed this transition from smiles to frowns, from caresses to curses. It was natural for him to be disappointed, but I hardly looked for the tempest that broke out after he had grasped the situation. Such cursing and swearing I never heard. He first cursed my father, then he cursed me, then he cursed himself for being a d deaf old fool. 74 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT He got so nervous that he could hardly articulate, and stopped to punctuate every word with "Eh ! eh ! eh ! eh !" In his fury he picked up two of my books and thrust them into a drawer with some papers he was putting away. Then he rushed from the room. I was becoming quite used to rough treatment; in fact, getting actually indifferent, and as I did not propose to go away without my books, I waited his return with stony composure. Back he came in a few minutes, still raging furi ously about my tricks and blandishments. Stum bling over my satchel in his excitement, he would have landed on his face had I not put out my hand and caught him, for which kind act he gave the satchel a vicious kick. I did not allow this to dis concert me in the least, but wrote a request for my books and passed it to him. As he was about to read the slip of paper, the door opened and a stal wart-looking man, clad in gray uniform, appeared on the scene. "Janitor," said the old man, puffing and blowing and hemming and hawing, "I rang the bell eh ! eh ! for you to put this young woman out eh ! eh ! she is a book agent eh ! eh ! and has been annoy- 75 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT ing me for the last hour eh ! eh !" and he sank back exhausted in his chair. The janitor looked on me not unkindly while I explained matters, then very politely informed me that he was sorry, but as my presence had been brought to his notice he would have to see that I left the building. As I started to follow him out I gave the old man a look that meant much. My face and manner must have shown the humiliation I felt, for his eyes avoided mine. The expression of his countenance changed, and leaning far over his desk he called out anxiously to the janitor, who was holding the door open for me to pass out. "Be gentle with her, janitor; I know what brutes you fellows are." While we were waiting to take the elevator he came out on a halting run and thrusting an en velope and the two books into my hand, he hobbled away without saying a word. On my way down I opened the envelope and found it contained a two- dollar bill. I was perfectly indignant, and wanted to return it to him, but the janitor persuaded me to keep it by telling me he was one of the best-hearted 76 THE DIARY OF A BOOK AGENT men in the world,, but a great crank, and that no one ever took any notice of what old Mac said or did. When I got out of the building I made a bee- line for the office of the "Elite Publishing Com pany," and told Mr. Smart that I was through with canvassing for all time. He was very considerate, and offered me a posi tion in the office, which I accepted. The salary is small, but it is better than being a book agent. They say many make a success of it. Well, I belong to the many that do not, and I can t say I regret it very much. A special messenger has just brought me some beautiful roses. They are from him. He writes that he is coming up this evening if I have no ob jections. Bess approves, and I well, I have said come. 77 The Modern Philanthropist THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST. Elizabeth Lindley. "The board of directors meets at ten o clock, so I must ask you to be brief," said Martin Livingston, the multi-millionaire, head of the Copper Trust, to his private secretary, who had just entered the library. The secretary, noting that the financier was fully dressed for the street, hastily selected several sheets of typewritten matter from a pile of papers on the desk and tendered them to him. Mr. Livingston passed them back. "I haven t time to go into detail just read the list." It was the thirty-first of December, the date on which for the past twelve years Martin Livingston, known far and near as the greatest philanthropist of the age, announced to the world his princely contribution for the advancement of education and the betterment of his fellow men. It was this an- 78 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST nual schedule of charities that the secretary was now submitting. Mr. Livingston listened attentively to the read ing of the list, signifying his approval by an occa sional nod. At its conclusion he rose, lit a cigar, drew on his gloves and sauntered nonchalantly into the spacious hallway. Stopping at the outer door he patted his favorite collie; then descending the steps, entered his waiting automobile with as little concern as if he had given away a trifling sum in stead of six million dollars. That same afternoon a despondent-looking man stepped up to a news-stand, put his hand in his pocket, took out a five-cent piece and a few coppers, looked at the change, then at the papers, hesitated, threw down a penny and picked up a paper; but before he had fairly taken it off the stand an arm shot over his shoulder, the paper was snatched from his hand and the single word, "Spendthrift!" was hissed in his ear. Evidently the voice was a familiar one, for the man turned and greeted his admonisher with a smile, a friendly nod, and "Hello, Philip! What are you doing down here?" 79 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST "I am here to keep you from squandering your money, and to see that you go home sober." The reply, though gravely given, was not con vincing, for the newsdealer glanced suspiciously from the face of the speaker to that of the other man, and as they linked arms and passed on up the crowded thoroughfare, he winked knowingly to his neighbor, the fruit vender, from whom Philip Harvey had purchased a small quantity of fruit. "What an infernally degrading thing poverty is," Harvey said, hugging the bag of oranges to his breast. "Imagine a gentleman haggling over a few cents worth of stuff and then having to carry it home himself !" His friend smiled indulgently. "The situation is very unpleasant, I will admit, but I believe in accept ing gracefully that which cannot be avoided, for you know It is hard to kick against the pricks. Harvey shook his head disapprovingly. "That is excellent philosophy," he said after a prolonged pause ; "but it is my opinion that a man can t afford to reason along those lines until he has reached the age of sixty. Why, that sort of philosophy is death to ambition, and without ambition there are few 80 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST achievements. You certainly agree with me on that point ?" His companion winced visibly at the unintended thrust. "It is very natural for you to look at things in that light; you have a profession and hope that some day " "Hope some day " Harvey interjected, gazing vacantly ahead. Suddenly he turned. "One thing I promise you, that if I don t make good soon, I shall give up the easel and take to the scaffold. A good house painter need not starve." He empha sized the words with a forceful gesture. His friend smiled quizzically. "That sounds very much like philosophy, or do you propose reaching the height of your ambition by scaling the painter s ladder?" Harvey laughed, but made no reply. They were walking rapidly toward that section of the city where row after row of unattractive, dingy houses lined the sides of narrow, ill-smelling streets. An ever-increasing army of dirty-faced, unkempt children and groups of slatternly women, gathered here and there, made it plain that they were not nearing a fashionable district. After cover ing several blocks in this locality they turned into a 81 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST narrow courtyard which connected two dungeon- like houses of the type that usually shelters the poor of New York. They had barely entered the area when a man emerged from the shadow of the oppo site doorway, and tapping the older of the two friends on his shoulder with professional coolness, said: "Mr. Colgate, I am sorry, but I have something for you." A look of consternation gleamed into the eyes of George Colgate, for he recognized the speaker and knew the purpose of his errand; but he mutely extended a trembling hand and took the official- looking document. The hard features of the man relaxed slightly. "Hate to do unpleasant things," he observed with a regulation smile ; "but I guess you will pull through all right," and he turned away abruptly, leaving Colgate gazing abstractedly at the folded sheet of paper. "Come, old man, don t go daffy over a trifle like that," Harvey remarked, taking him gently by the arm. "We will find a way out of the labyrinth, for the present let s get under cover." 82 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST At the door Colgate paused dejectedly. "Just a word before we go up," he said, consigning the paper to his pocket. "Lydia must not know of this." His voice broke despite his effort to control it. Together, silently, they mounted the steps of the ill-kept tenement. Passing on up to the third floor, Colgate opened the door of a sparsely furnished but scrupulously clean apartment. A few steps took him across the narrow room, to where a woman sat sewing. "Nothing new, sweetheart," he said in answer to an inquiring look from the fragile little woman, whose cheek he patted with lingering tenderness. The slight tremor in his voice did not escape the sensitive ear of the anxious wife, and her eyes met his questioningly. Under the searching glance he flushed visibly, but Harvey avoided complications by coming to his rescue. "Just stop that bungling love-making of yours and go to your sick babies. They are calling for you!" he ordered, pushing Colgate aside playfully; "or, if you wish, you may remain, and take a lesson from me." And he stooped over and raised Mrs. Colgate s toil-worn little hand to his lips. "A trib- 83 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST ute to beauty and virtue," he murmured, depositing in her lap the bag of fruit he had recently pur chased. Colgate, only too glad to escape, passed quickly into the adjoining room, and Mrs. Colgate, who ac cepted the fruit as she did the compliment, without comment or thanks, rose to prepare the evening meal. It did not require a keen perception to discern that poverty was no stranger in these small rooms. It was in evidence everywhere; in the wan face of the woman, the seedy clothes of the man, the peaked looking, fretful children, the bare floors and un attractive surroundings, the weak tea and stale bread that constituted the evening meal. "I cannot understand," said Harvey, who had re sumed the reading of the evening paper which had been interrupted by the serving of tea, "I cannot understand," he reiterated vehemently, "how they can call this man, Martin Livingston, a great phil anthropist." He gave the paper a vigorous slap with the tips of his fingers. "I see here the an nouncement of another gift; it is six million dollars this year." He held the paper nearer the dim light 84 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST of the small lamp which Mrs. Colgate had just placed on the bracket. "This is a summary of the benefactions." And his voice fairly quivered with excitement. Three million dollars for scientific research; two million to found a college in the Philippines; five hundred thousand for the promotion of education in the Congo Free State; two hundred and fifty thousand for statues of eminent American educa tors, and two hundred and fifty thousand for ex periments in aviation. "Now do you call that philanthropy?" he asked, settling back in his chair. Colgate fidgetted uneasily with the fringe on the edge of the tablecloth. "Do you call that philanthropy?" repeated Har vey persistently. "Well, yes, Philip, I do," Colgate replied after some hesitation. "By giving large sums of money for educational and scientific purposes, Mr. Living ston is benefiting his fellow creatures; that is cer tainly philanthropy." "But human suffering," Harvey interjected, "hu man needs, the cry of the sick, the poor, the aged, 85 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST alike fall unheeded on the ear of the modern phil anthropist. Science, libraries, education get it all." "No, not all," Colgate ventured mildly. "Oh, yes," Harvey reluctantly admitted, "now and again they throw a crumb to the dog." "When you consider how little we love these men, perhaps we get as much as we deserve," Colgate said meditatively. Harvey leaned back, studying the profile of the man before him. "George," he said, after a momentary pause, "do you know that, although we have been chums from boyhood, I have never been able to determine whether you are a fool or an extraordinarily good man." "I don t pretend to be good, Philip; but I really think that misfortunes tend to strengthen and de velop one s character." "There is where we differ. I think it is apt to make more devils than saints;" and having relieved his mind of this opinion, Harvey resumed his men tal survey of the man, for whose character he had profound respect. "I tell you what I think, George," he said, after 86 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST several puffs from a well-colored meerchaum; "if some of the people who spend so much money on anti-saloon leagues and other reform movements would do something for men of your stamp, it would stimulate renegades like me to lead a better life." Colgate did not reply. His thoughts had drifted to the appalling seriousness of his condition, the paper in his pocket and what it meant, the empty larder, the approaching holiday, and its consequent inaction. These were a few of the ugly facts that were passing through his perturbed mind. Harvey saw his preoccupation, knew the cause, and his generous spirit chafed under the limitations of his slender purse. For nearly a year he had been a sort of hedge between the little family and the sidewalk. To this end many a picture had found its way to the art dealers for little more than the proverbial song, but of late there had been no pur chases at any price, and his own needs were press ing. "Bah!" he exclaimed, rising abruptly, and com ing from out the shadow into the centre of the dimly lighted room. "What a d " Just then THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST Mrs. Colgate re-entered, and, smothering the oath that rose to his lips, in modified tones, he added, "failure I am." Colgate, awakened from his revery, with quiver ing lips, asked, "And what am I ?" "Oh, there is some excuse for you," he was edg ing his way toward the exit, "you have a family, your long illness and all that sort of thing." "Going to see the New Year in ?" Colgate asked, by the way of changing the subject. Harvey paused at the door, hat in hand. "I am going home and going to bed, that s the best place for a man who hasn t any money and is lucky enough to have a bed. See you in the morning," he added with a parting wave of the hand. New Year s Day dragged along uneventfully; to the occupants of the cheerless rooms it seemed in terminable. Colgate counted each hour as it passed and welcomed the next, only to wish it gone. When night came he went to bed early, but with every nerve strained to the utmost tension, sleep was im possible. He was facing a crisis, the gravity of which no amount of reasoning could minimize, and he was anxious to be up and trying, for though he 88 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST dreaded failure, inaction was unbearable. With the first gleam of day he rose quietly, dressed hurriedly, tiptoed from the room and so passed on out of the house to join the great army of the unemployed. Lydia Colgate, who had been aroused by the creaking of the door as it closed behind her hus band, sat up and looked around blankly. As her eyes fell on the vacant place beside her she clasped her hands. "He has gone without any breakfast. How stupid of me," she cried fretfully. The next instant she was peering through the window into the dull gray of the foggy winter morning. The rain was commencing to fall. She sighed penitently, lowered the shade, and crossing over to where a small mirror hung above a plain old-fashioned table, without so much as a glance at the wistful face reflected in it, she began brushing her hair mechanically. The thought that while she slept her husband had gone out was uppermost in her mind, and as she leaned against the table list lessly plaiting her hair, all other interests were tem porarily suspended. Suddenly a child s voice broke the stillness. She 89 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST started and turned a shade paler, the plaintive little call coming at that time seemed like a reproach for another duty neglected. The idea stirred her to action, and she hurriedly completed her simple toilet, then with a quick, nervous tread she passed into the room occupied by her children. A few minutes later, with blanched cheeks, she staggered across the threshold. In her hand, at arm s length, she held a sheet of legal paper, the one her husband had placed in his pocket two days be fore. Wide-eyed, dazed, she read aloud the printed form, slowly, haltingly, word by word, as if trying to comprehend its full import. Suddenly she paused and her voice fell to a low monotone. "It must have fallen from his pocket he was keeping it from me." The broken sentences fell almost inarticulately from her ashen lips. Grasp ing the back of a chair to steady herself, she leaned over and placed the cruel ejection-warrant upon the mantel with a chill horror born of the knowledge of what it meant, then appalled, panic-stricken, she turned and with a feeling of childlike helplesness threw herself across the foot of the bed, wearily closed her eyes and prayed for help and strength. 90 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST "Lord, I ask not luxuries; Lord, I ask only my children s health and daily bread." The voice trailed off into a low moan. For a brief interval she lay placidly as if over come by the weight of perplexing emotions. Pres ently her lips moved slightly; inaudibly she counted the days that had elapsed since the serving of the notice, and she grew cold and faint at the thought of their utter destitution, but by sheer force of will she threw off the feeling of deathly exhaustion, and struggled to her feet. For several seconds she stood motionless, unable to formulate any plan of action, then her glance wandered piteously from the empty medicine bottles and scant supply of gruel to the two little forms lying side by side in the adjacent room, and she sank back quivering in the chair. "God help me, and show me some way out of this," she sobbed distractedly, while the tears fell on a crumpled sheet of newspaper lying on the table before her. For some time she sat staring vacantly on the printed lines. At first the glaring letters she saw through her tear-dimmed eyes meant nothing. She read and reread the words, "Martin Living- 91 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST ston s annual gift to the people," without even the consciousness of doing so. After a while her eyes wandered to the next line: Six million dollars. Again she read : Six million dollars. Suddenly she cried: "This man has six million dollars to give away six million dollars !" Clutch ing the paper in her trembling hands, she rose, and stood as if transfixed by the magic of the figures. Presently her eyes dilated, a wave of color passed over her pallid face. With an impulse that sug gested hope she flung aside the paper, gathered up her writing materials from a near-by shelf and, seating herself at the table, wrote three letters in rapid succession. This done she slipped an outer garment over her house-dress and stepping into the hallway, rapped on the opposite door. "May I ask a favor of you, Mrs. O Brien?" she inquired of the kindly looking woman who an swered her knock. Half an hour later Mrs. O Brien was peeling her dishpan of potatoes in the Colgate apartment, and 92 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST Mrs. Colgate was ringing the doorbell of a brown- stone house in a fashionable quarter of the city. As the vibrant sound of the bell echoed through the corridor, Miss Gordon, the mistress of the house, and three modishly gowned women, who were as sembled in the library, paused in a somewhat ani mated argument and glanced expectantly toward the door. The topic under discussion was the disposi tion of two hundred thousand dollars left for benevolent purposes by the late Caroline B. Stoker. The testatrix had not specified or even suggested any charitable object to which the bequest should be devoted; the disposal of the fund was left entirely to the judg ment of four trustees, women who had been inti mate friends and co-workers with her in several char itable movements. After many arguments pro and con, they agreed to devote the fund to certain philanthropic projects which they thought would prove of infinite benefit to the poor and the working classes. The result was that each of the trustees se cured a tidy sum for the furtherance of her pet scheme. 93 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST Mrs. Potter, the president of the East Side Shakespearian Club, was empowered to expend sev enty-five thousand dollars on the erection of a small theatre where high-class amateur performances could be given by the working classes. Mrs. Kemp, on behalf of the Potted Plant As sociation, secured twenty-five thousand dollars to aid in the distribution of potted plants among the destitute of the city. Miss Gordon s proposition that twenty-five thou sand dollars be expended on automobiles to be used for recreation purposes by the women and children of the Ghetto, was ratified. The suggestion made by Mrs. Stoker, sister-in- law of the deceased, that seventy-five thousand dol lars be donated to a home for the aged, was over ruled, and she reluctantly consented to its appropria tion for missionary work in China. For weeks these women had conscientiously studied over the problem of making the best use of the benefaction, and now with the possible end of their labors in view, they were awaiting the arrival of their legal adviser. Mrs. Colgate, never dreaming that her timid ring- 94 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST ing of the doorbell had caused the suspension of such important business, tremblingly placed in the hand of the maid who admitted her one of the let ters she had written at home. Too nervous to speak, her fingers closed over the extended hand with a pleading pressure. The maid who usually took letters of this sort to Miss Gordon s secretary, and knew that their des tination \vas the waste-basket, looked keenly into the wan, anxious face and a feeling of pity filled her heart. Guided by this kindly impulse, and regard less of the reprimand which she knew would fol low, she went straight to the library and placed the note in Miss Gordon s hand, hoping that the direct appeal would bring better results. Miss Gordon was not favorably impressed by the quality of the stationery, and she turned the en velope over critically before opening it. One glance at the contents was sufficient. Her eyes flashed dis approval. "There is no answer," she said, with a gesture of dismissal. Mrs. Colgate, with flushed cheeks and breath com ing quickly, leaned against the staircase, alternately 95 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST hoping and praying, her vision focused on the li brary door. Eagerly she scanned the face of the white-capped messenger as she recrossed the thresh old, but before a word was spoken she knew the an swer, and turning away to hide her gathering tears, she glided noiselessly toward the door. The maid, quick to grasp the situation, moved forward swiftly, and reached the door first. "I am sorry," she said as she held it open for the droop ing figure to pass out, "but Miss Gordon does all all this sort of work through the Bureau of Chari ties. I did the best I could for you." The misty eyes of Lydia Colgate looked the grati tude she felt, then she stepped in silence out of the vestibule. Slowly, haltingly, she descended the snow-covered steps. At the bottom she paused for an instant to gather her mantle closer about her, for the wind was piercing and cold; then, with only a vague sense of the plan she had mapped out, she moved abstractedly away. After awhile her steps became more resolute, and she walked on, block after block, without a halt. Turning into a broad, well-paved street, she stood on the edge of the curbstone, and 96 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST looked up inquiringly at the lamp post; then she glanced at the number cut into the stone stoop of the corner house, and continued on her way. A few seconds later she stopped and drew a long breath. She had reached the goal. It was just a plain unostentatious house, but be hind the dingy gray brick front and closely drawn shades, lived a woman whose name was ever linked with countless dollars and deeds of charity. It was this knowledge that caused Mrs. Colgate to creep timidly up the steps, and to peer nervously into the sombre, tapestry-hung hallway, while, with waver ing voice, she asked : "Is Mrs. Ralston at home ?" Nor did a polite affirmative answer restore her courage. On the contrary a feeling of fear, sheer, child-like fear, stole over her as she stood in the anteroom of the philanthropist s residence, awaiting an answer to her second missive. So varied had been the day s emotion, so severe the nervous strain upon her weakened vitality, that at the sound of voices in the adjacent room, she turned, and, filled with apprehension, would have fled from the house, but before she reached the door the heavy velvet 97, THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST drapery at the further end of the room was swept aside and the figure of an elderly woman stepped into the vacant space. Mrs. Colgate, arrested in her attempt to escape, stood abashed, with bowed head. "In granting you this interview, I am deviating from my usual custom," the lady said in even, well- modulated tones. Lydia Colgate s heart gave a joyous bound, but her steps faltered slightly as she advanced toward the calm, dignified woman who beckoned her to approach. Mrs. Ralston, for it was she, raised her gold- rimmed glasses to her eyes and surveyed the pitiful little creature scrutinizingly. After a momentary pause she said : "I am sorry that I cannot do anything for you personally, as the Bureau of Charities particularly requests that all persons seeking aid be turned over to it;" but noticing the increasing pallor of the up turned face, she added, "I am devoting all my time to the improvement of conditions, and other impor tant matters along that line, and as I contribute 98 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST largely to the Bureau of Charities, I must refer you to that organization." "My husband went there three weeks ago and they sent some one to see us, but we have not heard from them since," Mrs. Colgate managed to say with some degree of composure. The tone of kindness died out of Mrs. Ralston s voice. "Then there must be some reason for it," and she motioned the maid to show her visitor to the door. Mrs. Colgate s head sank until her chin rested upon her breast. She did not attempt to say an other word. Humbly, mutely, she passed down the hall and out of the house. The cutting winds drove her along the slippery sidewalk, and the falling sleet beat without mercy in her face, but she did not heed it. On she went, seemingly unmindful of everything. At the crossing she caught the full fury of the gale and her cloak blew open; instinctively she put out her hand to close it. As she did so, the letter she had written to Martin Livingston fell from her nerveless fingers. For several seconds she gazed silently down on the small, white envelope, her mind a maze of thoughts, 99 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST then, like a flash, the recollection of her children formed a connecting link between her purpose and its fulfillment, and a look of determination crept into her eyes. Stooping down she picked up the letter, wiped it on the lining of her cloak, and, turn ing around the corner, stopped a passing car. "Wall Street, please," she said to the conductor, handing him her fare. Then she dropped into a seat, and for the next half hour was lost to every thing around her. When the car reached the end of the route, the conductor put his head through the doorway and shouted: "This is as fur as we go, lady. Wall Street five blocks straight ahead," he volunteered, noticing her hesitation on alighting. Down the narrow street the little wind-blown, rain-drenched figure trudged, never pausing until it stopped in front of the large building in which Mar tin Livingston had his offices. Passing into the commodious vestibule and threading her way tim idly through the hurrying throng, Lydia Colgate reached the elevator shaft. "Office of the United Copper Company," she whispered faintly as she entered the car. IOO THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST Up past the first and second landing the car sped. "United Copper Company," the boy said, bring ing the car to a stop on the third floor. Mrs. Colgate hesitated. Office of the United Copper Company," he shouted impatiently. With an effort she roused herself, and stepping from the crowded car, leaned trembling against the marble archway that led to the office of Martin Livingston. When she had summoned sufficient courage, she opened the door stealthily and stepped so timidly into the room that not one of the many clerks who were busily engaged noticed her entrance. Like some spectre she glided over the heavily car peted floor, looking with a bewildered air, first into one room, then another. Pausing as if by inspira tion before the one she was seeking, she crossed the threshold and stood in the presence of Martin Liv ingston. The great financier looked up with a frown. He was not accustomed to having persons enter his of fice unannounced, and the presence of this bedrag gled, white-faced woman, with her wet garments and disheveled hair, grated on his sensitive nerves 101 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST and deepened his annoyance. It suggested suffer ing and want, the possibility that he would be called upon to listen to an unpleasant story of poverty and be asked for aid. He did not wish to have his sympathies played upon, and certainly would not give where he was not interested. Mrs. Colgate, therefore, looked into a cold, stony face a face so stern and severe that she continued gazing into it without uttering a word. "Well, what is it?" Mr. Livingston asked impa tiently. "I would like to see Mr. Livingston," the answer came in a frightened whisper. "You have gratified the desire," he replied with studied deliberation. "Now, what do you wish to say?" And he leaned back in his commodious leather chair, with that air of superiority and indifference which only the wealthy can afford to assume. The pale lips parted, but no sound came from them. The frightened woman advanced a step nearer, and stood quivering before the man she had come to see. The blood mounted to Mr. Livingston s face. He 102 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST was getting tired of this sort of thing, and he con tinued to stare back blankly without evincing the slightest interest or encouragement "Well, I am waiting to hear what you have to say," he observed in frigid tones. There was no question in his mind as to why she was there, and he awaited her answer with ill-concealed irritability. Mrs. Colgate shuddered, cowering visibly. For a second she seemed about to collapse, but with a timid cry she held out her hand beseechingly. "In mercy make it easier for me to say it," she pleaded piteously, bravely forcing back the tears that welled from under the half-closed lids. The appeal passed unnoticed, but in the moment of silence that followed she seemed to gather cour age, for the color surged back to her cheeks and a calm, steady light shone in the large, sad eyes, which for the first time looked unfalteringly into the impassive face of the man before her. For a full second she stood thus as if trying to measure her weakness against his strength, then her head drooped slightly forward and her voice rose won derfully sweet and clear. In just two minutes her story was told, simply, 103 truthfully, plaintively. When it was finished, with a deep intake of breath, she clasped her hands and waited meekly without so much as daring to lift her eyes. If Mr. Livingston felt any pity for the delicate, careworn woman he did not exhibit any trace of it. "You are only one among many," he said with cruel coldness, "and were I to assist you there would be an endless procession at my door. I am sorry, but I can do nothing for you," and he flicked the ashes from his partially smoked cigar. As the words dropped from his lips with icy firm ness the slight figure swayed backward, tottered forward and fell senseless at his feet. Mr. Livingston, who had put his arm out in the hope of breaking the fall, stooped down and took the limp hand in his. For a moment, just for a mo ment, a look of pity showed in his face, but it was instantly suppressed, and rising he passed quickly over to his desk and gave the electric bell a vigorous touch. "Phone for a conveyance and send this woman home," he said to the boy who answered the sum mons. THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST Then he put on his topcoat and hat, and, without even a glance at the unconscious form, he passed into his secretary s office. "Where is Mr. Winter?" he inquired of a clerk. "Gone to have his lunch, sir." "And Jackson?" It was Jackson s business to guard the door and keep intruders out. "He asked permission to go and have a tooth ex tracted, sir." Mr. Livingston went as far as the second door, then he turned back. "See that he has time after the first of the month to have all his teeth ex tracted," and he left the office, slamming the door behind him. ******* It was shortly after noon when Colgate, pale and haggard, passed through the door of a cheap lunch room in Park Row. He glanced anxiously over the heads of some dozen or more men seated at tables near the entrance, then, without waiting, he turned and passed out. Scarcely had the door closed behind him, when Harvey, coming from the opposite direction, saw 105 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST his retreating figure, and started on a lively run. Catching up with him he gave him a vigorous slap on the shoulder. "Good news, old man!" he cried, flourishing a card in the face of the surprised Colgate. "You are to go straight down to this address, get right up on a high stool, and there you are." Colgate s hand closed eagerly over the card, while his eyes looked inquiringly. "Don t waste time asking questions," Harvey said, pushing him into an open doorway. "Here is the whole story : I didn t know until last night, when we met accidentally, that the multi-mil lionaire, Al Smith, was a college chum of mine. Multi-millionaire! Bah! How I hate that word. Well, anyway, about an hour ago he dropped in at my room to see me, and I immediately put in a good word for you, with the result that you start to work to-day and receive a month s salary in advance." Colgate s lips twitched convulsively as he grasped Harvey s hand. "How can I thank you?" he said huskily. "Don t thank me; thank Smith." "Well, I do; still, I owe it all to you. But, 1 06 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST Philip," and his face fairly beamed with gratitude, "here at least you will have to admit is one good millionaire." "Smith, good!" Harvey laughed satirically. "I have never heard that before. I have always under stood that he spent his money on fast horses, wine, etc., etc. the charming et ceteras getting a goodly portion of it. However, he is a fine fellow, and has promised to do all sorts of things for me. Come in and have a plate of soup." "No, thanks, I am anxious to be off," Colgate re plied, edging his way toward the crossing. Harvey waved his hand as a parting salute. "Oh, by the way," he called back after he had gone a few paces, "I am to have a studio uptown, and, well, it begins to look as if I shan t have to paint signs or houses, either." No sooner had Harvey disappeared into the res taurant than Colgate started on a dog trot down the street. He got as far as the City Hall, then he glanced up at the clock and hurrying across the park, jumped on a Broadway car. He was paying out his last nickel, but what did he care? Was he not going to get a month s salary? 107 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST Arriving at the office of "The Albert Smith Cor poration, Limited," he sent in the magic card on which was scribbled a few penciled, words, and was immediately shown into the office of the manager. "Ah! Mr. Colgate, I have been expecting you," said that important personage, extending a hand with affable condescension, "Mr. Smith phoned a few minutes ago advising me to make a place for you." He pressed an electric button and a boy ap peared. "Take this gentleman to Mr. Taylor s depart ment?" "Mr. Taylor is expecting you, Mr. Colgate. I have instructed him with reference to the little mat ter of salary." Colgate muttered his thanks, bowing low. He had been so long unemployed that he was as grate ful as a starved dog for a bone. Never was he happier than when he ran up the first column of figures. All day long he worked for the love of it, pausing only to wish that his wife was sharing his happiness. When five o clock came he crammed the bills which Mr. Taylor had given him into his pocket, 108 THE MODERN PHILANTHROPIST got into his overcoat, and rushed for the trolley. Swinging off in front of his house, he ran up the steps like a boy, turned the knob of his door, a smile on his face. Strange, there was no light. "Lydia," he called. There was a nervous ring in his voice perhaps the children "Lydia !" he called again, groping his way toward the dimly lighted room. The cry of a new-born babe fell on his ear. In the semi-darkness he saw the figure of Mrs. O Brien approaching. Gently, very gently, she took him by the hand. "It was her heart, the doctor said." With a wail of anguish, Colgate bounded across the room and sank down beside the lifeless form. 1109 18109 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 676 275 1