“Going to Chicago?”
It was a genial elderly man in the seat opposite asking the question—a plump man with a little pointed beard sprinkled with grey, and laughing wrinkles about his eyes. He leaned forward in a friendly manner.
“Yes,” Felix answered.
“First time?” the man asked shrewdly.
“Yes,”—and Felix wondered why it should be the first time. Why, living only five hours away from Chicago, had he never gone there to reconnoitre, to learn to find his way about, to get the lay of things? It had been stupid of him not to.
“I came to Chicago for the first time forty years ago,” the elderly man was saying. “And I was just about as scared as you are.” He laughed kindly, and tapped Felix’s knee. “But I needn’t have been. Chicago’s a fine town. No place better for a young man to go. You don’t need to worry, my boy. Chicago’s on the lookout for bright young people.”
Yes—but that was just what was bothering Felix Fay. He was afraid he was not a bright young person in the ordinary meaning of the term.
The man entered upon a lively account of his early struggles and successes in the hides and leather business.
“What’s your line?” he suddenly asked, smiling.
“I—write,” Felix said, embarrassed. “I want to get a job on a newspaper.” How remote that seemed from the hides and leather business!