Mrs. Ponting lived entirely from her own point of view. This was her life, to charm those whom she needed, to wound those who rebuffed her, to ignore those with whom she was not acquainted. Her imagination was completely blind and deaf; wounds or joys outside of herself were inconceivable to her. She was glad of her present advantage over Edward, the advantage of the wounder over the wounded. There was nothing deliberate in her gladness; simply she did not know pain unless she felt it.
Edward had very little money. His operation and the hospital had absorbed almost all that he had. He owed the rest—and more—to his hotel. He had no shame about accepting money. He lacked manly pride. If Melsie Ponting had offered him money he would have taken it gladly. He would have pretended to himself that it was a great struggle and a great humiliation to accept money but really he would have been delighted. He had never had any understanding of money, no apprehension of poverty, no skill in keeping money, no anticipation of increasing it. The etiquette and decencies of money made no appeal to him. It is hardly necessary to add that Mrs. Ponting did not offer him money, even when she had asked him, “Well, for goodness’ sake, Edward, why don’t you go to the Orient too as you planned?” and Edward had replied, “I haven’t any money.”
One thing Edward was not too proud but too shy to do. He could not actually ask for money. San Francisco is full of generous people; almost any of the guests at his party would have helped him. But he did not know how he would introduce the subject. There was no equality of friendship where Edward was concerned.
Rhoda Romero had offered to pay him to go to China. “Did she know Emily was going? No, she wanted to get rid of me. I am a weariness to Rhoda. She was trying to mislay me kindly. And now I have mislaid Emily.”
Every day for a week after that Edward walked about on Van Ness Avenue in the hope of seeing Avery Bird speeding past in a taxi. Edward thought he would throw himself in front of the taxi. For the first time Avery Bird, now in trouble himself, would look gently on Edward. Van Ness Avenue is the Bond Street of motor cars. I have no doubt that little homely Fords, bragging in the public garages at night, talk about the latest fashions in windshields on Van Ness. Van Ness also leads to the Hall of Justice. Edward moved from window to window examining the shining new automobiles and constantly turning sharply, expecting to see Rhoda, restored to freedom, coming to meet him.
Once he went to the Hall of Justice to ask if he might speak to Rhoda. His appearance seemed to irritate the public servants whom he addressed. They offered him no assistance. He wrote a long and introspective letter to Rhoda, care of the City Jail, but he received no answer.
He was a little stronger in health and felt capable of filling almost any position except those which were advertised in the papers. Finally he was obliged to apply for a job as salesman for a patent egg-beater. But he was told that he lacked punch. He became desperate and attempted to become a grocer’s assistant in a poor part of the city. The boss, a bustling Greek, said he didn’t want no white-collar guys. Then Edward called at the office of a company that seemed inexplicably anxious that young America should become acquainted with the works of Milton. To this end they had printed a Milton for Our Boys. It was not, of course, “in poetry.” Poetry is unhealthy for children, unmanly for Our Boys. On the contrary, this was Milton’s genius made clear for immature minds, as the Jewish, violet-powdered young lady in the office cleverly recited by heart to Edward. The advertisement had demanded the services of highminded young men and women of college education interested in public service, so Edward rightly felt that his tendency to white-collarism would be no disadvantage here. A college education, it appeared, was, in most cases, necessary to enable the public-spirited young men and women to persuade the hardfisted mothers of Our Boys not only to pay one dollar down and procure a five dollar Paradise Lost in their homes, but in addition, to sign a form ordering four more works of Milton—Paradise Regained for Our Boys, Collected Works of Milton for Our Boys One, Collected Works of Milton for Our Boys Two and Milton and America by Spilwell G. Mundt. Any enlightened mother who should commit herself to the purchase of the whole series would be presented, absolutely free, with a beautiful picture of George Washington standing under the Stars and Stripes looking flushed and repressed as though he were suffering from indigestion. It was probably felt by the firm that this gift would gloss over the fact that, unfortunately, the immortal writer to be introduced to Our Boys was not, strictly speaking, a hundred per cent American.
The fact that Edward was English appealed to the Jewish young lady in charge as rather piquant. It seemed to her that his speech—though, of course, ridiculously foreign—was somehow “cultured.” She therefore waived the fact that he could not claim a college education. She gave him a little pamphlet showing him what to say to the mothers of North Berkeley. The pamphlet opened with advice about persistence—never get discouraged—go right on ringing till somebody comes—if possible step inside the door as soon as it is opened—be cheery and sympathetic—never take the first No for an answer, nor the second either; many firstrate deals have been put through after two or three refusals—remember it’s mother’s job to grip the pocketbook tight, but—well, she’s only a woman after all, and doesn’t she want to see that little scamp of hers grow up into a big, wise, cultured woman? The opening sentence of the attack was, “Say, Mother, what are you doing for your boy?” But a few comments on the weather or the view—any cheery topic that presented itself—to be inserted before that opening sentence, were in order. Edward would receive ten per cent commission—fifty cents for each work of Milton sold. “Some of our men make five to seven dollars a day,” said the young lady in an inspiring voice. “And North Berkeley’s a clean field....”