Some ten days to a fortnight had passed, and October with its cooler winds had come, though life was still possible without overcoats. Our dress-clothes were now in Ikey’s, moth-balls beside them. The Chinese laundry had been paid, but not the second week’s rent, for money was very low and dinners of the smallest. Practice at the free lunch counters had improved our methods of strolling up absent-mindedly, perceiving the food apparently for the first time, then picking up with quick fingers the maximum quantity. Kay, meanwhile, had secured a part in a touring company which was to start out for a series of one-night stands in about three weeks, his salary of fifteen dollars to begin with the first night. He was already rehearsing. My own efforts had produced nothing. Boyde, too, had not yet landed his huntsman job, which was to include comfortable quarters as well as a good salary. I had been down with him when he went to see Davis, waiting in the street till he came out, and the interview, though reassuring, he told me, involved a little further delay still. He, therefore, continued his odd jobs, calling at the theatre every night and matinée to see if he was wanted, playing the organ in church occasionally, and getting a small fee for singing in the choir. He shared with us as we shared with him; he slept on the sofa in our room; he was welcome to wear my extra suits of clothes--until Ikey might care to see them. Then, quite suddenly, fate played a luckier card. Kay and I were at the free lunch counter of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, Boyde having been called away to do something at his Baptist church, when Bob Mantell strolled up, bringing a tall, grey-haired man with him. The next minute he was introducing me to Cecil Clay, with a remark to the effect that he must surely have known my father, and that I surely must know Mr. Clay’s famous book on whist. Cecil Clay, anyhow, was a kindly old Englishman, and evidently was aware how the land lay with us, for a few minutes later he had given me a card to Laffan, manager of the _New York Sun_. “Go and see him the day after to-morrow,” he said. “Meanwhile I’ll write him a line about you.” Had it been possible to go then and there I should have felt more confidence and less nervousness than when I called at the appointed hour. The interval, with its hopeful anticipation and alternate dread, was a bad preparation for appearing at my best. After a few questions, however, Mr. Laffan, a man of very powerful position in the newspaper world, a great art collector and connoisseur, head, too, of the Laffan News Bureau, said that Mr. McCloy, managing editor of the _Evening Sun_, would give me a trial as a reporter, and I could start next Monday--four days away--at fifteen dollars a week. I had mentioned that I knew French and German, and could write shorthand. He spoke to me in both languages, but, luckily, he did not think of testing the speed and accuracy of my self-taught Pitman.