Humorous stories; Mistaken identity -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
During the first few days he kept the fact diligently before his mind
that he was in a land where there was “work and bread for all.” In
fact, for convenience’ sake he fitted it to a little tune and hummed it
to himself; but as time wore on the fact itself began to take on a
doubtful look, and next the tune got fatigued and presently ran down
and stopped. His first effort was to get an upper clerkship in one of
the departments, where his Oxford education could come into play and do
him service. But he stood no chance whatever. There, competency was no
recommendation; political backing, without competency, was worth six of
it. He was glaringly English, and that was necessarily against him in
the political centre of a nation where both parties prayed for the
Irish cause on the house-top and blasphemed it in the cellar. By his
dress he was a cowboy; that won him respect—when his back was not
turned—but it couldn’t get a clerkship for him. But he had said, in a
rash moment, that he would wear those clothes till the owner or the
owner’s friends caught sight of them and asked for that money, and his
conscience would not let him retire from that engagement now.
At the end of a week things were beginning to wear rather a startling
look. He had hunted everywhere for work, descending gradually the scale
of quality, until apparently he had sued for all the various kinds of
work a man without a special calling might hope to be able to do,
except ditching and the other coarse manual sorts—and had got neither
work nor the promise of it.
He was mechanically turning over the leaves of his diary, meanwhile,
and now his eye fell upon the first record made after he was burnt out:
“I myself did not doubt my stamina before, nobody could doubt it now,
if they could see how I am housed, and realise that I feel absolutely
no disgust with these quarters, but am as serenely content with them as
any dog would be in a similar kennel. Terms, twenty-five dollars a
week. I said I would start at the bottom. I have kept my word.”
A shudder went quaking through him, and he exclaimed:
“What have I been thinking of! _This_ the bottom! Mooning along a whole
week, and these terrific expenses climbing and climbing all the time! I
must end this folly straightway.”
He settled up at once and went forth to find less sumptuous lodgings.
He had to wander far and seek with diligence, but he succeeded. They
made him pay in advance—four dollars and a half; this secured both bed
and food for a week. The good-natured, hardworked landlady took him up
three flights of narrow, uncarpeted stairs and delivered him into his
room. There were two double-bedsteads in it, and one single one. He
would be allowed to sleep alone in one of the double beds until some
new boarder should come, but he wouldn’t be charged extra.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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