With me to think is to act. I am always like that. I always, alas, feel that the thing I have thought of is right, and there is no use arguing about it. This is well known in my Institution of Learning, where I am called impetuus and even rash.
That night, my Familey being sunk in sweet slumber and untroubled by finances, I made a large card which said: “For Hire.” I had at first made it “For Higher,” but saw that this was wrong and corected it. Although a natural speller, the best of us make mistakes.
I did not, the next day, confide in my betrothed, knowing that he would object to my earning Money in any way, unless perhaps in large amounts, such as the stock market, or, as at present, in Literature. But being one to do as I make up my mind to, I took the car to the station, and in three hours made one dollar and a fifteen cent tip from the Gray’s butler, who did not know me as I wore large gogles.
I was now embarked on a Commercial Enterprize, and happier than for days. Although having one or to narrow escapes, such as father getting off the train at my station instead of the other, but luckily getting a cinder in his eye and unable to see until I drove away quickly. And one day Carter Brooks got off and found me changing a tire and very dusty and worried, because a new tube cost five dollars and so far I had made but six-fifteen.
I did not know he was there until he said:
“Step back and let me do that, Bab.”
He was all dressed, but very firm. So I let him and he looked terrable when finished.
“Now,” he said at last, “jump in and take me somewhere near the Club. And tell me how this happened.”
“I am a bankrupt, Carter,” I responded in a broken tone. “I have sold my birthright for a mess of porridge.”
“Good heavens!” he said. “You don’t mean you’ve spent the whole business?”