CHAPTER VIII.
SETTLING.
The middle of July found Peter in New York, eager to begin his grapplewith the future. How many such stormers have dashed themselves againstits high ramparts, from which float the flags of "worldly success;" howmany have fallen at the first attack; how many have been borne away,stricken in the assault; how many have fought on bravely, till drivenback by pressure, sickness or hunger; how few have reached the top, andwon their colors!
As already hinted, Peter had chosen the law as his ladder to climb theseramparts. Like many another fellow he had but a dim comprehension of thestruggle before him. His college mates had talked over professions, andagreed that law was a good one in New York. The attorney in his nativetown, "had known of cases where men without knowing a soul in a place,had started in and by hard work and merit had built up a good practice,and I don't see why it can't be done as well in New York as in Lawrenceor Lowell. If New York is bigger, then there is more to be done." SoPeter, whose New York acquaintances were limited to Watts and four othercollegians, the Pierces and their fashionables, and a civil engineeroriginally from his native town, had decided that the way to go about itwas to get an office, hang up a sign, and wait for clients.
On the morning after his arrival, his first object was a lodging.Selecting from the papers the advertisements of several boarding-houses,he started in search of one. Watts had told him about where to locate,"so as to live in a decent part of the city," but after seeing andpricing a few rooms near the "Avenue," about Thirtieth Street, Peter sawthat Watts had been thinking of his own purse, rather than of hisfriend's.
"Can you tell me where the cheaper boarding-houses are?" he asked thewoman who had done the honors of the last house.
"If it's cheapness you want, you'd better go to Bleecker Street," saidthe woman with a certain contemptuousness.
Peter thanked her, and, walking away, accosted the first policeman.
"It's Blaker Strate, is it? Take the Sixth Avenue cars, there beyant,"he was informed.
"Is it a respectable street?" asked Peter.
"Don't be afther takin' away a strate's character," said the policeman,grinning good-naturedly.
"I mean," explained Peter, "do respectable people live there?"
"Shure, it's mostly boarding-houses for young men," replied the unit of"the finest." "Ye know best what they're loike."
Reassured, Peter, sought and found board in Bleecker Street, notcomprehending that he had gone to the opposite extreme. It was a dullseason, and he had no difficulty in getting such a room as suited bothhis expectations and purse. By dinner-time he had settled his simplehousehold goods to his satisfaction, and slightly moderated thedreariness of the third floor front, so far as the few pictures andother furnishings from his college rooms could modify the effect ofwell-worn carpet, cheap, painted furniture, and ugly wall-paper.
Descending to his dinner, in answer to a bell more suitable for afire-alarm than for announcing such an ordinary occurrence as meals, hewas introduced to the four young men who were all the boarders thesummer season had left in the house. Two were retail dry-goods clerks,another filled some function in a butter and cheese store, and thefourth was the ticket-seller at one of the middle-grade theatres. Theyall looked at Peter's clothes before looking at his face, and though thegreetings were civil enough, Peter's ready-made travelling suit, boughtin his native town, and his quiet cravat, as well as his lack ofjewelry, were proof positive to them that he did not merit any greatconsideration. It was very evident that the ticket-seller, not merelyfrom his natural self-assertion but even more because of his enviableacquaintance with certain actresses and his occasional privileges in theway of free passes, was the acknowledged autocrat of the table. Underhis guidance the conversation quickly turned to theatrical and "show"talk. Much of it was vulgar, and all of it was dull. It was made theworse by the fact that they all tried to show, off a little before thenewcomer, to prove their superiority and extreme knowingness to him. Tomake Peter the more conscious of this, they asked him various questions.
"Do you like--?" a popular soubrette of the day.
"What, never seen her? Where on earth have you been living?"
"Oh? Well, she's got too good legs to waste herself on such a littleplace."
They would like to have asked him questions about himself, but feared toseem to lower themselves from their fancied superiority, by showinginterest in Peter. One indeed did ask him what business he was in.
"I haven't got to work yet," answered Peter
"Looking for a place" was the mental comment of all, for they could notconceive of any one entitled to practise law not airing his advantage.So they went on patronizing Peter, and glorifying themselves. When timehad developed the facts that he was a lawyer, a college graduate, and aman who seemed to have plenty of money (from the standpoint of dry-goodsclerks) their respect for him considerably increased. He could not,however, overcome his instinctive dislike to them. After the manlyhigh-minded, cultivated Harvard classmates, every moment of theirsociety was only endurable, and he neither went to their rooms nor askedthem to his. Peter had nothing of the snob in him, but he found readingor writing, or a tramp about the city, much the pleasanter way ofpassing his evenings.
The morning after this first day in New York, Peter called on hisfriend, the civil engineer, to consult him about an office; for Wattshad been rather hazy in regard to where he might best locate that. Mr.Converse shook his head when Peter outlined his plan.
"Do you know any New York people," he asked, "who will be likely to giveyou cases?"
"No," said Peter.
"Then it's absolutely foolish of you to begin that way," said Mr.Converse. "Get into a lawyer's office, and make friends first before youthink of starting by yourself. You'll otherwise never get a client."
Peter shook his head. "I've thought it out," he added, as if thatsettled it.
Mr. Converse looked at him, and, really liking the fellow, was about toexplain the real facts to him, when a client came in. So he only said,"If that's so, go ahead. Locate on Broadway, anywhere between theBattery and Canal Street." Later in the day, when he had time, he shookhis head, and said, "Poor devil! Like all the rest."
Anywhere between the Battery and Canal Street represented a fairly largerange of territory, but Peter went at the matter directly, and for thenext three days passed his time climbing stairs, and inspecting roomsand dark cells. At the end of that time he took a moderate-sized office,far back in a building near Worth Street. Another day saw it fitted witha desk, two chairs (for Peter as yet dreamed only of single clients) anda shelf containing the few law books that were the monuments of hisHarvard law course, and his summer reading. On the following Monday,when Peter faced his office door he felt a glow of satisfaction atseeing in very black letters on the very newly scrubbed glass the signof:
PETER STIRLING
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW.
He had come to his office early, not merely because at his boardingplace they breakfasted betimes, but because he believed that early hourswere one way of winning success. He was a little puzzled what to do withhimself. He sat down at his desk and thrummed it for a minute. Then herose, and spread his books more along the shelf, so as to leave littlespaces between them, thinking that he could make them look more imposingthereby. After that he took down a book--somebody "On Torts,"--and duginto it. In the Harvard course, he had had two hours a week of thisbook, but Peter worked over it for nearly three hours. Then he tookpaper, and in a very clear, beautifully neat hand, made an abstract ofwhat he had read. Then he compared his abstract with the book. Returningthe book to the shelf, very much pleased with the accuracy of hismemory, he looked at his watch. It was but half-past eleven. Peter satdown at his desk. "Would all the days go like this?" he asked himself.He had got through the first week by his room and office-seeking andfurnishing. But now? He could not read law for more than four hours aday, and get anything from it. What was to be done with the rest of thetime? W
hat could he do to keep himself from thinking of--from thinking?He looked out of his one window, over the dreary stretch of roofs andthe drearier light shafts spoken of flatteringly as yards. He compressedhis lips, and resorted once more to his book. But he found his mindwandering, and realized that he had done all he was equal to on a hotJuly morning. Again he looked out over the roofs. Then he rose and stoodin the middle at his room, thinking. He looked at his watch again, tomake sure that he was right. Then he opened his door and glanced aboutthe hall. It was one blank, except for the doors. He went down the twoflights of stairs to the street. Even that had the deserted look ofsummer. He turned and went back to his room. Sitting down once more athis desk, and opening somebody "On Torts" again, he took up his pen andbegan to copy the pages literally. He wrote steadily for a time, thenwith pauses. Finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and becamestraggly. Then he ceased to write. The words blurred, the paper fadedfrom view, and all Peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes. He laidhis head down on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed.
There is no more terrible ordeal of courage than passive waiting. Mostof us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, foryears, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future! So it wasin Peter's case. It was waiting--waiting--for what? If clients came, iffame came, if every form of success came,--for what?
There is nothing in loneliness to equal the loneliness of a big city.About him, so crowded and compressed together as to risk life andhealth, were a million people. Yet not a soul of that million knew thatPeter sat at his desk, with his head on his blotter, immovable, fromnoon one day till daylight of the next.
The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him Page 8