Quite boldly, for a green boy, I approached the person whom I was told was the proprietor and asked him if he had any work for a boy, whereupon he looked at me in what seemed a most scornful way and said very tartly:
"What kind of work do you think you could do?"
I told him I could do most anything in the way of common labor.
He gave me another half-scornful smile and said:
"I think you had better go home to your parents and go to school. That's the best place for you."
This was discouraging, but instead of explaining my position, I turned to go, and in spite of all that I could do the tears came to my eyes. Not that I cared so much for being refused employment, but for the manner in which the hotel man had spoken to me. I did not propose to give up at that, but started away, more than ever determined to find employment. I did not want to impose on the Beckets, notwithstanding that they still assured me of welcome, and moreover I wished to do something to help them, even more than myself.
I had nearly reached the door when a man who had been reading a newspaper, but was now observing me, called out:
"My boy! come here."
I went over to the corner where he was sitting and I was trying at the same time to dry away my tears.
This man asked my name, which I gave him. He then asked where my parents lived, and I told him that they died when I was four years old.
Other questions from him brought out the story of my succeed.
