A sign in the window read:
"Stenographer Wanted."
It was in response to this ad I had entered.
Right here a description of me might not be out of place.
My spring suit had been ruined, and long since discarded for a suit of overalls that I had purchased in Dallas. Hard knocks had rent them in several places, and they were full of train grease. My shoes were worn completely out. For a hat I was wearing a wide-brimmed sombrero, purchased from a Mexican merchant at Alamogordo. I was strapped again, but that was a thing I was getting used to.
Taken all in all, I'm sure I looked anything but a stenographer.
Williams was typewriting when I entered and asked for the job.
He refused to look at the various references I produced, saying they would have no weight with him, but glancing up at me, broke out into a broad smile.
"So you are a shorthand writer, eh! Well, come back to-morrow morning and I'll give you a trial," was the promise, but it was quite easy to see he thought I was more of a tramp than a shorthand writer.