ded by his native shrewdness, Dennis finally found
accommodation for his meager impedimenta in an unassuming lodging-house
called The Stag.

This establishment reflected, in a curious way, the demands of its
patrons.

Almost the entire first floor was occupied by the glittering details of
a seductive barroom, through which one was compelled to pass, challenged
on every side by alluring labels, before reaching the restaurant
immediately in the rear.

Above, the floors were divided into numerous sleeping-rooms barely large
enough to accommodate a bed, washstand and one chair--a sordid ensemble,
unrelieved by any other wall decoration than the inevitable
announcement: "This way to the fire escape."

By a singular coincidence which would have aroused a lively emotion in
the moralist, a Bible occupied a small shelf directly under the
instructions quoted above.

Dennis, however, was too weary to recognize the grim association, and
shortly after his arrival retired for the night to recuperate his
energies for the uncertainties of the morrow.

Awakening at dawn with a sincere hope that his dreams of a succession
of disasters were not prophetic, and, despite the appeals of the glitter
and the labels in the bar, breakfasting with his customary
abstemiousness, Dennis issued from The Stag with a determination to make
the effort of his life to secure employment.

He had no definite plans other than a profound determination to resist
the invitations of Baxter Street, a thoroughfare congested from end to
end with innumerable shops devoted to the species of merchandizing from
which he had so recently escaped.

Here his talents would have procured for him ready recognition, a
condition which deepened his determination to avoid all possible contact
with these solicitous sons of Shem.

Beyond a singular desire to enter a large publishing house, Dennis had
no idea as to the direction of his efforts.

Aside from the fact that books held an unaccountable fascination for
him, he could not explain this predilection, for their influence over
him was in the aggregate.

He loved to wander, with aimless preoccupation, among closely-packed
shelves, and in pursuance of this indirection was familiar with the
interior of every library in the city of Philadelphia.

He appeared to have too much respect for the books to touch them, and
was sufficiently in awe of their contents not to attempt to read them.

He was impressed by the volume