Don secured his hat, gloves, and stick, and started from the club at a brisk clip.
From Forty-fourth Street to the Twenties was as familiar a path as any in his life. He had traversed it probably a thousand times. Yet, this morning it suddenly became almost as strange as some street in Kansas City or San Francisco.
There were three reasons for this, any one of which would have accounted for the phenomenon: he was on his way to secure a job; he had in his pocket just thirteen cents; and he was hungry.
The stores before which he always stopped for a leisurely inspection of their contents took on a different air this morning. Quite automatically he paused before one and another of them and inspected the day’s display of cravats and waistcoats. But, with only thirteen cents in his pocket, a new element entered into his consideration of these things––the element of cost. It was at the florist’s that his situation was brought home to him even more keenly. Frances liked flowers, and she liked to receive them from him. Here were roses that looked as if they had been plucked for her. But they were behind a big plate-glass window. He had never noted before that, besides being transparent, plate-glass was also thick and hard. And he was hungry. The fact continually intruded itself.
At last he reached the address that Barton had given him. “Carter, Rand & Seagraves, 32 Investment Securities,” read the inscription on the window. He passed through the revolving doors and entered the office.
A boy in buttons approached and took his card.
“Mr. Carter, Mr. Rand, or Mr. Seagraves,” said Don.
The boy was soon back.
“Mr. Farnsworth will see you in a few minutes,” he reported.