Grateful at finding a kind woman's face to welcome him,—glad of the opportunity to economize his slender means by sharing a room with another person, strongly-recommended as "very quiet" by Mrs. Markham,—Salmon washed his face, combed his hair, and ate his first supper in Washington. He has eaten better suppers there since, no doubt,—but not many, I fancy, that have been sweetened by a more devout sense of reliance upon Providence.
"Williams was a companionable person, who had a place in the Treasury Department, and talked freely about the kind of work he had to do, and the salary.
"Eight hundred a year!" thought Salmon, deeming that man enviable who had constant employment, an assured position, and eight hundred a year. His ambition was to get a living simply,—to place his foot upon some certainty, however humble, with freedom from this present gnawing anxiety, and with a prospect of rising, he cared not how slowly, to the place which he felt belonged to him in the future. Little did he dream what that place was, when he questioned Williams so curiously as to what sort of thing the Treasury Department might be.
"If I could be sure of half that salary,—or even of three, or two hundred, just enough to pay my expenses, the first year,—I should be perfectly happy!"
"Haven't you any idea what you are going to do?"
"None whatever."
"What can you do?"
"For one thing, I can teach. I think I shall try that."
"You'll find it a mighty hard place to get pupils!" said Williams, with a dubious smile.
Which rather gloomy prediction Salmon had to think of before going to bed.