But Carroll’s mind was made up. He was a natural-born electrician, and here was the long-coveted chance to perfect himself in his favorite hobby. He must not miss it.
He slept late next morning, but was ready to go down town in time to draw his thousand dollars. He had to wait a strangely long time for a street car, and when, at last, one came down and he boarded it, he was surprised to note that the gripman was none other than the chief engineer of the road, while the secretary of the company himself was handling the punch and taking fares. As he handed up his nickel Burton asked: “How’s this, Graham? Are you ‘personally conducting’ this car load?”
Graham smiled grimly at the joke. “Looks like it,” he said sharply. “This thousand-dollar-a-day lunacy of the anti-poverty people is going to ruin our business. All our men have quit work. When they’ve a thousand dollars a day to draw they’re not going to pull grips and punch tickets for $2.50 a day, they say—and no one can blame ’em, I suppose, but it’s mighty hard on capital, I can tell you. We’ve got to run cars or forfeit our franchise.”
Burton assented that it was pretty tough. “I must see Reading about that wheel,” he thought, “then I can be independent of cars.” So having drawn his money he started for the shop of a famous mechanic, who made a superior style of wheel for which he controlled the right on the Pacific Coast. On the way Burton tried to bank his money, which was heavy and troublesome to carry; but found, much to his disgust, that none of the banks would touch it.
“We’ve got more now than we know what to do with,” was the cry. “We can’t loan it nor invest it, and we’ve no room to store it.”
So, carrying it, Carroll proceeded to Reading’s shop. He was not really surprised to find it closed, and a notice on the door to the effect that Reading had gone out of business. “I can’t say I blame him,” thought Burton, “but I wish I’d got my wheel yesterday. I must hunt up an agent.”
It was a long hunt before he found one whose store was open, and he had but one machine left that Carroll could ride. “I’ve sold a good many this week,” the agent explained, “and it’s hardly worth while to stock up again, as I’m going out of business. Besides, I had a telegram from the Eastern factory this morning, saying their men had nearly all quit work.”
Congratulating himself upon having secured any bicycle at all, Carroll, who had before had a few lessons, wobbled uncertainly away upon it, to the restaurant where he was wont to eat his meals. It was closed.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, as he met another of the frequenters of the place, “this is getting serious. I’m hungry.”
“Yes,” said the other, “so am I. I quit work myself to-day. I’ve always wanted to study medicine, but fate made me a carpenter. Now I’ve got even with fate. I’m going to college, but I want something to eat.”