It was not, as Tower had said, "a highly respectable job," but it was the first opportunity that Don had had to do anything for himself, and he went through it with the nervous seriousness of a resolve to prove himself capable. He felt that he was being given a trial at last; that he owed it to Tower to flinch at nothing; that he must prove himself to himself, to the world, and to the man who had helped him. He crushed down his conscientious scruples against playing the hypocrite and counterfeiting a fresh interest in each of the free performances; and he tried to pay his money into the ticket office with a properly alluring eagerness. After all, the show was worth ten cents, and he was only leading the public on to its own amusement.
When the last "take" was netted, at half-past five, he took his fifty cents from the manager as the first wages of his proven usefulness, and walked out, with Tower, full of a splendid confidence in himself. He had "found his feet" at last, he thought.
He invited Tower to have dinner with Conroy and Pittsey in their rooms, explaining the circumstances of their housekeeping. And Tower said: "Pittsey? What is his Christian name?"
"Bert. Herbert."
"Oh! . . . Don't tell him you met me. I'll call some evening and surprise him."
"Really! You know him? He's been here before."
"Yes. How's he getting on?"
Don related his friend's successes with pride. "Where did you meet him?"
