I turned and looked out over New York. I saw its lofty spires, its massed buildings, gigantic in the sky; I saw the opening of the great Hudson River, and the darkening water of the bay; I heard, like a sinister multiple voice out of the future, the strident cry of this wonderful and terrible capital of the New World, and the deep pulsings of its engines of frantic haste and untiring energy. The general note, I remember, was alarming rather; a touch of loneliness, of my own stupid incompetence to deal with its aggressive spirit, in which gleamed something merciless, almost cruel--this was the response it stirred in me. I suddenly realized I had no trade, no talents to sell, no weapons with which to fight. My heart sank a little. Among these teeming millions, with their tearing speed, their frenzied energy, their appalling practical knowledge, I possessed but one friend, Kay, and some sixty dollars between us. New York would eat me up unless I “got a hustle on.” Next morning, our capital much reduced, we moved into the lodging house. The idea of sharing a bed, in view of our size and the narrowness of the bed, amused us, but without enthusiasm. The sofa was too small to sleep on. “We’ll move,” announced Kay, “as soon as we get jobs.” A telegram was sent to Toronto giving our address, and a few days later a packing case arrived with our Toronto possessions, and ten dollars to pay out of our small total. We found close at hand, in 20th Street, a cheap clean German restaurant--Krisch’s--where a meal of sorts could be had for 30 cents, tip 5 cents; it had a sanded floor and was half _bier-stube_, and one of its smiling waiters, Otto--he came from the Black Forest where I had been to school--proved a true friend later, allowing us occasional credit at his own risk; a Chinese laundry was looked up in Fourth Avenue; I spent one of our precious dollars in a small store of fiddle strings against a possible evil day--a string meant more to me than a steak--and we were then ready for our campaign. Not a minute was lost. Kay, in very sanguine mood, the Irving wig, I shrewdly suspected, in his pocket, went out to interview managers; while I took a train down-town to interview Harper’s, as being the most important publishing house I knew. This step was the result of many discussions with Kay, who said he was sure I could write. The Red Indian advice of the Edinburgh “spirit” had impressed him. “That’s your line,” he assured me. “Try the magazines.” I felt no similar assurance, no desire to write was in me; we had worked ourselves up to a conviction that bold, immediate action was the first essential of our position; to get pupils for my two languages or shorthand seemed impossible in a city like New York; therefore I hurried down, with vague intentions but a high heart, to Harper’s.