I was French, the
way people always did when they wanted to say that I had a foreign
accent. So we got started on Russia, and had such an interesting time
that we both jumped up, surprised, when a fine young lady in a
beautiful hat came in to take possession of the idle typewriter.

Mr. Strong introduced me very formally, thanked me for an interesting
hour, and shook hands with me at the door. I did not add his name to
my short subscription list, but I counted it a greater triumph that I
had made a friend.

It would have been seeking an anticlimax to solicit any more in the
building. I went out, into the roar of Tremont Street, and across the
Common, still green and leafy. I rested a while on a bench, debating
where to go next. It was past two by the clock on Park Street Church.
I had had a long day already, but it was too early to quit work, with
only one half dollar of my own in my pocket. It was Saturday--in the
evening the landlady would come. I must try a little longer.

I went out along Columbus Avenue, a popular route for bicyclists at
that time. The bicycle stores all along the way looked promising to
me. The people did not look so busy as in the office building: they
would at least be polite.

They were not particularly rude, but they did not subscribe. Nobody
wanted the "Searchlight." They had never heard of it--they made jokes
about it--they did not want it at any price.

I began to lose faith in the paper myself. I got tired of its name. I
began to feel dizzy. I stopped going into the stores. I walked
straight along, looking at nothing. I wanted to go back, go home, but
I wouldn't. I felt like doing myself spite. I walked right along,
straight as the avenue ran. I did not know where it would lead me. I
did not care. Everything was horrid. I would go right on until night.
I would get lost. I would fall in a faint on a strange doorstep, and
be found dead in the morning, and be pitied.

Wouldn't that be interesting! The adventure might even end happily. I
might faint at the door of a rich old man's house, who would take me
in, and order his housekeeper to nurse me, just like in the story
books. In my delirium--of course I would have a fever--I would talk
about the landlady, and how I had tried to earn the rent; and the old
gentleman would wipe his spectacles for pity. Then I would wake up,
and ask plaintively, "Where am I?" And when I got strong, after a
delightfully long convalescence, the old gentlema