Father knew Cy very well. On rare occasions he went into the bar and had a drink and a talk with him. I worked faithfully, early and late. At the end of the week, in the afternoon when there was no customer about, Cy mysteriously beckoned me into his “office,” a small closet of a room at one end of the bar. It was simply furnished—a table, a chair, a large spittoon, one picture on the wall opposite the desk. A picture of the mighty John L. Sullivan in fighting pose. Cy seated himself at the table, put on a pair of glasses, and drew out a small notebook. He looked carefully about the room. Seeing the door of his office open, he told me to close it. To me Cy had always been much of a mystery. He had been “out West”—to Leadville, Deadwood, and San Francisco. He owned the latest pattern of repeating rifle and a couple of “forty-fives.” He played poker. I thought I was now to be initiated into some of the secret activities of his life. Maybe he would ask me to do something dangerous. Well, whatever it was, I would do it. He wrote something in the notebook, then took three silver dollars out of his pocket and put them in my hand, carefully, without clinking them. “Johnnie, this is pay day.” I went back to work happy. Pay day, three dollars of my own money. I would have a gray suit, gray hat, gloves, and a leather trunk in no time. I would soon be a tall, handsome, distinguished-looking gentleman, on Cy’s money. I jingled my three dollars loudly and could hardly wait for my father to come home so I could tell him about my working and ask him to mind my money for me. The possession of three dollars changed me at once. I became independent, confident, secure. When father came in I went to him without a single misgiving, feeling sure he would approve. I had my money in my hand and my spirit was high. I told him I had been working for Mr. Near all week; that I had three dollars in wages and wanted him to take care of them for me. He took the money and put it in his pocket, saying: “All right. Let me know when you want it.” “And you don’t mind my working for Cy?” “No. I don’t mind. Cy told me all about it. You will have to learn to work some time. And you will have to learn lots of other things. So you may as well start at Cy’s.” He turned to his paper, and I thought the thing was settled, but as I went out of the room I saw him twisting up the end of his long beard. The school work was no trouble to me. I put in a year, and vacation time came along almost before I knew it. I was saving all the money I earned as assistant to Cy, and was looking forward to earning more during vacation. I brought home to my father a report from the school which seemed to show that I had made good progress. He glanced at the card and threw it to one side. “I suppose you have the multiplication table this time, John?” “Oh, yes, I learned it at last.” “How many are eight times nine, John?” “Seventy-two, sir.” “Good. Seven times six?” “Forty-two, sir.”