It had been a delightful experience; I had seen and known at last the primeval woods; I had even seen Red Indians by the dozen in their pathetic Reservations, and if they did not, like the spirit of the Medicine Man in Edinburgh, advise me to “scratch,” they certainly made up for the omission by constantly scratching themselves. It seems curious to me now that, during those months of happy leisure, the desire to write never once declared itself. It never occurred to me to write even a description of our picturesque way of living, much less to attempt an essay or a story. Nor did plans for finding work in New York--we discussed them by the score--include in their wonderful variety any suggestion of a pen and paper. At the age of twenty-two, literary ambition did not exist at all. The Muskoka interlude remained for me a sparkling, radiant memory, alight with the sunshine of unclouded skies, with the gleam of stars in a blue-black heaven, swept by forest winds, and set against a background of primeval forests that stretched without a break for six hundred miles of lonely and untrodden beauty. CHAPTER XI Kay and I arrived in New York on a crisp, sunny afternoon with sixty dollars in hand out of the original hundred set by for the purpose, and took a room in the Imperial Hotel, Broadway, which someone had recommended. We knew no one, had no letters of introduction. We were tanned the colour of Red Indians, in perfect physical condition, but with a very scanty wardrobe. The furious turmoil of the noisy city, boiling with irrepressible energies, formed an odd contrast to the peace and stillness of the forests. There was indifference in both cases, but whereas there it was tolerant and kindly, here it seemed intolerant and aggressive. “Get a hustle on, or get out,” was the note. Nature welcomed, while human nature resented, the intrusion of two new atoms. Nostalgia for the woods swept over me vehemently, but at the same time an eager anticipation to get work. We studied the papers at once for rooms, choosing a boarding house in East 19th Street, between Broadway and 4th Avenue. Something in the wording caught us. An hour after our arrival we interviewed Mrs. Bernstein and engaged the third floor back, breakfast included, for eight dollars a week. It was cheap. The slovenly, emotional, fat Jewess, with her greasy locks, jewellery, and tawdry finery, had something motherly about her that appealed. She smiled. She did not ask for payment in advance. “What’s your work,” she inquired, gazing up at me. “Oh, I’m going on the newspapers,” I said offhand, taking the first idea that offered, but little dreaming it was to prove true. “I shall be on the stage,” Kay promptly added, “as soon as my arrangements are made.” Mrs. Bernstein smiled. She knew the power of the Press and favoured reporters. “My hospand,” she informed Kay sympathetically, “is an artist too, a moosician. He has his own orghestra.”