elebrated eulogy of George
Washington, but nobody had paid for my poems--yet. I was coming to
that, of course, but in the mean time I could not pay the rent with my
writing. To be sure, my acquaintance with men of letters gave me an
opening. A friend of mine introduced me to a slightly literary lady
who introduced me to the editor of the "Boston Searchlight," who
offered me a generous commission for subscriptions to his paper.

If our rent was three and one-half dollars per week, payable on strong
demand, and the annual subscription to the "Searchlight" was one
dollar, and my commission was fifty per cent, how many subscribers did
I need? How easy! Seven subscribers a week--one a day! Anybody could
do that. Mr. James, the editor, said so. He said I could get two or
three any afternoon between the end of school and supper. If I worked
all Saturday--my head went dizzy computing the amount of my
commissions. It would be rent and shoes and bonnets and everything for
everybody.

Bright and early one Saturday morning in the fall I started out
canvassing, in my hand a neatly folded copy of the "Searchlight," in
my heart, faith in my lucky star and good-will towards all the world.
I began with one of the great office buildings on Tremont Street, as
Mr. James had advised. The first half-hour I lost, wandering through
the corridors, reading the names on the doors. There were so many
people in the same office, how should I know, when I entered, which
was Wilson & Reed, Solicitors, and which C. Jenkins Smith, Mortgages
and Bonds? I decided that it did not matter: I would call them all
"Sir."

I selected a door and knocked. After waiting some time, I knocked a
little louder. The building buzzed with noise,--swift footsteps echoed
on the stone floors, snappy talk broke out with the opening of every
door, bells tinkled, elevators hummed,--no wonder they did not hear me
knock. But I noticed that other people went in without knocking, so
after a while I did the same.

There were several men and two women in the small, brightly lighted
room. They were all busy. It was very confusing. Should I say "Sir" to
the roomful?

"Excuse me, sir," I began. That was a very good beginning, I felt
sure, but I must speak louder. Lately my voice had been poor in
school--gave out, sometimes, in the middle of a recitation. I cleared
my throat, but I did not repeat myself. The back of the bald head that
I had addressed revolved and presented its com