CHAPTER X
WAITING.
"My friend," said an old and experienced philosopher to a young man, whowith all the fire and impatience of his years wished to conquer theworld quickly, "youth has many things to learn, but one of the mostimportant is never to let another man beat you at waiting."
Peter went back to his desk, and waited. He gave up looking at the wallof his office, and took to somebody "On Torts" again. When that wasfinished he went through the other law books of his collection. Thosedone, he began to buy others, and studied them with great thoroughnessand persistence. In one of his many walks, he stumbled upon theApprentices' Library. Going in, he inquired about its privileges, andbecame a regular borrower of books. Peter had always been a reader, butnow he gave from three or four hours a day to books, aside from his lawstudy. Although he was slow, the number of volumes, he not merely read,but really mastered was marvellous. Books which he liked, without muchregard to their popular reputation, he at once bought; for his simplelife left him the ability to indulge himself in most respects withinmoderation. He was particularly careful to read a classic occasionallyto keep up his Greek and Latin, and for the same reason he read Frenchand German books aloud to himself. Before the year was out, he was arecognized quantity in certain book-stores, and was privileged tobrowse at will both among old and new books without interference orsuggestion from the "stock" clerks. "There isn't any good trying to sellhim anything," remarked one. "He makes up his mind for himself."
His reading was broadened out from the classic and belles-lettresgrooves that were still almost a cult with the college graduate, byanother recreation now become habitual with him. In his long trampsabout the city, to vary the monotony, he would sometimes stop and chatwith people--with a policeman, a fruit-vender, a longshoreman or atruckster. It mattered little who it was. Then he often enteredmanufactories and "yards" and asked if he could go through them,studying the methods, and talking to the overseer or workers about thetrade. When he occasionally encountered some one who told him "your kindain't got no business here" he usually found the statement "my fatherwas a mill-overseer" a way to break down the barrier. He had to use itseldom, for he dressed plainly and met the men in a way which seldomfailed to make them feel that he was one of them. After such inspectionand chat, he would get books from the library, and read up about thebusiness or trade, finding that in this way he could enjoy worksotherwise too technical, and really obtain a very good knowledge of manysubjects. Just how interesting he found such books as "OurFire-Laddies," which he read from cover to cover, after an inspectionof, and chat with, the men of the nearest fire-engine station; orLatham's "The Sewage Difficulty," which the piping of uptown New Yorkinduced him to read; and others of diverse types is questionable.Probably it was really due to his isolation, but it was much healthierthan gazing at blank walls.
When the courts opened, Peter kept track of the calendars, and whenevera case or argument promised to be interesting, or to call out the greatlights of the profession, he attended and listened to them. He tried towrite out the arguments used, from notes, and finally this practiceinduced him to give two evenings a week during the winter masteringshorthand. It was really only a mental discipline, for any case ofimportance was obtainable in print almost as soon as argued, but Peterwas trying to put a pair of slate-colored eyes out of his thoughts, andemployed this as one of the means.
When winter came, and his long walks became less possible, he turned toother things. More from necessity than choice, he visited the art andother exhibitions as they occurred, he went to concerts, and to plays,all with due regard to his means, and for this reason the latter werethe most seldom indulged in. Art and music did not come easy to him, buthe read up on both, not merely in standard books, but in the reviews ofthe daily press, and just because there was so much in both that hefailed to grasp, he studied the more carefully and patiently.
One trait of his New England training remained to him. He had brought aletter from his own Congregational church in his native town, to one ofthe large churches of the same sect in New York, and when admitted,hired a sitting and became a regular attendant at both morning andevening service. In time this produced a call from his new pastor. Itwas the first new friend he had gained in New York. "He seems a quiet,well-informed fellow," was the clergyman's comment; "I shall make apoint of seeing something of him." But he was pastor of a very large andrich congregation, and was a hard-worked and hard-entertained man, sohis intention was not realized.
Peter spent Christmastide with his mother, who worried not a little overhis loss of flesh.
"You have been overworking," she said anxiously.
"Why mother, I haven't had a client yet," laughed Peter.
"Then you've worried over not getting on," said his mother, knowingperfectly well that it was nothing of the sort. She had hoped that Peterwould be satisfied with his six months' trial, but did not mention herwish. She marvelled to herself that New York had not yet discovered hisgreatness.
When Peter returned to the city, he made a change in his livingarrangements. His boarding-place had filled up with the approach ofwinter, but with the class of men he already knew too well. Even thoughhe met them only at meals, their atmosphere was intolerable to him. Whena room next his office fell vacant, and went begging at a very cheapprice, he decided to use it as a bedroom. So he moved his few belongingson his return from his visit to his mother's.
Although he had not been particularly friendly to the other boarders,nor made himself obtrusive in the least, not one of them failed to speakof his leaving. Two or three affected to be pleased, but"Butter-and-cheese" said he "was a first-rate chap," and this seemed togain the assent of the table generally.
"I'm dreadfully sorry to lose him," his landlady informed her otherboarders, availing herself, perhaps, of the chance to deliver a side hitat some of them. "He never has complained once, since he came here, andhe kept his room as neat as if he had to take care of it himself."
"Well," said the box-office oracle, "I guess he's O.K., if he is a bitstiff; and a fellow who's best man to a big New York swell, and gets hisname in all the papers, doesn't belong in a seven-dollar,hash-seven-days-a-week, Bleecker Street boarding-house."
Peter fitted his room up simply, the sole indulgence (if properly socalled) being a bath, which is not a usual fitting of a New Yorkbusiness office, consciences not yet being tubbable. He had made hismother show him how to make coffee, and he adopted the Continentalsystem of meals, having rolls and butter sent in, and making a Frenchbreakfast in his own rooms. Then he lunched regularly not far from hisoffice, and dined wherever his afternoon walk, or evening plans carriedhim. He found that he saved no money by the change, but he saved hisfeelings, and was far freer to come and go as he chose.
He did not hear from the honeymoon party. Watts had promised to write tohim and send his address "as soon as we decide whether we pass thewinter in Italy or on the Nile." But no letter came. Peter called on thePierces, only to find them out, and as no notice was taken of hispasteboard, he drew his own inference, and did not repeat the visit.
Such was the first year of Peter's New York life. He studied, he read,he walked, and most of all, he waited. But no client came, and he seemedno nearer one than the day he had first seen his own name on his officedoor. "How much longer will I have to wait? How long will my patiencehold out?" These were the questions he asked himself, when for a momenthe allowed himself to lose courage. Then he would take to a bit ofwall-gazing, while dreaming of a pair of slate-colored eyes.