Merriwell’s former friends would not have believed it possible for him to bring himself to one small square room, with bare floors and undecorated walls. He smiled as he fancied some of them looking in on him in his new quarters.
But no one realized better than Frank Merriwell that the young man who lives beyond his means forms habits that lead to certain ruin in the end, and he was determined to start right.
There is much in the right kind of a start in life. It is slow, heart-breaking work climbing the ladder of fortune, but the patient plodder wins in the end, for he makes sure of each step as he goes.
Frank had arranged to take his meals at a cheap restaurant, but he went home and washed up thoroughly before going out. He had bought some curled hair, which he knew would, with the aid of good soap, be very effective in removing the grime from his hands, and, after he had washed, scarcely a trace of his work could be discovered by the closest inspection. He knew that in time the dirt must wear beneath his finger nails so it could not be removed, and so he had cut his beautifully-shaped nails as short as possible, preferring to sacrifice them rather than carry them about “in mourning.”
He had been fortunate in finding a place to eat, for, although the restaurant was cheap, everything looked clean, and he was able to eat the food with relish.
Somehow, as he sat there eating, he was not cast down or dejected. Instead, a feeling of self-reliance and independence possessed him, and his heart swelled with something like exultation.
He had been cast upon his own resources, and he must make his way along in the world and unaided. If there was any real ability in him, he firmly believed he would succeed, and he welcomed the test. Not a fear or a doubt concerning the future possessed him.
Having eaten heartily, he went out for a stroll about the city. He felt the need of a walk in the open air, after which he would go to his room and get a good night’s rest.
Gradually he walked toward a better section of the city. At last he was attracted by the sound of music and of singing, and, in front of some shops he saw a boy and girl standing, while a small crowd had gathered near.
The boy was playing on a guitar, while the girl was singing. They were rather poorly clad, although their clothes were neat and clean. The boy might have been seventeen years old, and he had one short, crooked leg, making necessary the use of a crutch. The girl was not over fifteen, and she had one of the sweetest faces Frank had ever looked upon. There was something pathetic about her face—something that struck to Merry’s heart with a pang.