ess college on Fourth Avenue and paid $20 to learn
telegraphing. It was the last money I had. I attended the school in
the afternoon. In the morning I peddled flat-irons, earning money for
my board, and so made out. . . .

[But there came again a season of hard times for him and the
Newfoundland dog some one had given him, and he had some unhappy
experiences as a book agent].

It was not only breakfast we lacked. The day before we had had only a
crust together. Two days without food is not good preparation for a
day's canvassing. We did the best we could. Bob stood by and wagged
his tail persuasively while I did the talking; but luck was dead
against us, and "Hard Times" stuck to us for all we tried. Evening
came and found us down by the Cooper Institute, with never a cent.
Faint with hunger, I sat down on the steps under the illuminated clock,
while Bob stretched himself at my feet. He had beguiled the cook in
one of the last houses we called at, and his stomach was filled. From
the corner I had looked on enviously. For me there was no supper, as
there had been no dinner and no breakfast. To-morrow there was another
day of starvation. How long was this to last? Was it any use to keep
up a struggle so hopeless? From this very spot I had gone, hungry and
wrathful, three years before when the dining Frenchmen for whom I
wanted to fight thrust me forth from their company. Three wasted
years! Then I had one cent in my pocket, I remembered. To-day I had
not even so much. I was bankrupt in hope and purpose. Nothing had
gone right; nothing would ever go right; and worse, I did not care. I
drummed moodily upon my book. Wasted! Yes, that was right. My life
was wasted, utterly wasted.

A voice hailed me by name, and Bob sat up, looking attentively at me
for his cue as to the treatment of the owner of it. I recognized in
him the principal of the telegraph school where I had gone until my
money gave out. He seemed suddenly struck by something.

"Why, what are you doing here?" he asked. I told him Bob and I were
just resting after a day of canvassing.

"Books!" he snorted. "I guess they won't make you rich. Now, how
would you like to be a reporter, if you have got nothing better to do?
The manager of a news agency downtown asked me to-day to find him a
bright young fellow whom he could break in. It isn't much--$10 a week
to start with. But it is better than peddling books, I know."

He poked