The telephone rang and Metzger made the arrangements, and again, turned to the boy. "Each evening at dinner time, you are to ask at the desk for an envelope. In the envelope you will receive a ticket to the theatre. This, also, at our expense." He smiled broadly. "You see, we treat our guests well. We do not wish them to become tired of our city, and we wish those with whom we have dealings to think well of us."
[CHAPTER XVIII]
CONNIE SELLS SOME LOGS
CONNIE MORGAN left the office of the Syndicate, and once more upon the sidewalk, filled his lungs with the keen air. "It's going to work!" "It's going to work!" he repeated over and over to himself as he made his way toward the store where he had left his discarded clothing stuffed into a brand new brown leather suitcase. The boy returned unhesitatingly to the store, not by means of street signs, but by the simple process of back-trailing. Trained in observation, his eyes had unfailingly registered the landmarks in his brain—even when that brain had been too busy wondering what was to be the outcome of his conference with Heinie Metzger, to know that it was receiving impressions. It was this trained habit of observation that had enabled him to select his wearing apparel and the brown leather suitcase. He had simply studied the passengers on the train, and selecting a man who looked well dressed, had copied his apparel and even his suitcase.
The clerk at the store directed him to his hotel, and a few minutes later he stood in the window of a thickly carpeted room, and stared out over the roofs of buildings. "It's—it's like the mountains," he mused, "stretching away, peak after peak, as far as you can see, and the streets are the canyons and the valleys—only this is more—lonesome." Tiring of looking out over the roofs, he put on his overcoat and spent the afternoon upon the streets, admiring the goods in the store windows and watching the people pass and repass upon the sidewalks. It was a mild, sunshiny afternoon and the streets were thronged with ladies, the browns, and greys, and blacks, and whites of their furs making a pretty kaleidoscope of colour.
At the Union Station he procured a folder and after looking up the departure of trains, returned to his hotel. He walked back at the time when factories, stores, and office buildings were disgorging their human flood onto the streets, and the boy gazed about him in wonder as he elbowed his way along the sidewalk. He smiled to himself. "I guess I don't know much about cities. In the store I was wondering where in the world they were going to find the people to buy all the stuff they had piled around, and when I was looking out the window, I wondered if there were enough people in the world to live in all the houses—and now I'm wondering if there is enough stuff to go around, and enough houses to hold 'em all."
In this room Connie glanced at his watch, performed a hasty toilet, and hurried into the elevator. "Gee, it's most six!" he muttered, "I bet I'm late for supper." He was surprised to find men in the lobby, sitting about in chairs or talking in groups, as they had been doing when he left in the afternoon. "Maybe they don't have it 'til six," he thought, and seating himself in a leather chair, waited with his eyes on the clock. Six o'clock came, and when the hand reached five minutes after, he strolled to the desk. "Anything here for me?" he asked. The clerk handed him an envelope. "Heinie's making good," thought the boy, and then, trying not to look hungry, he turned to the clerk: "Cook hollered yet?" he asked casually.
The man smiled: "Grill's down stairs," he announced, pointing to a marble stairway at the other end of the room.
"I ain't too late, am I?" asked the boy.