“I came here,” explained Hurstwood, nervously, “because I’ve been a manager myself in my day. I’ve had bad luck in a way but I’m not here to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week.”
The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant’s eye.
“What hotel did you manage?” he inquired.
“It wasn’t a hotel,” said Hurstwood. “I was manager of Fitzgerald and Moy’s place in Chicago for fifteen years.”
“Is that so?” said the hotel man. “How did you come to get out of that?”
The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact.
“Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn’t anything to talk about now. You could find out if you wanted to. I’m ‘broke’ now and, if you will believe me, I haven’t eaten anything to-day.”
The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood’s earnestness made him wish to do something.
“Call Olsen,” he said, turning to the clerk.
In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head porter, appeared.