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Today I had not even so much. I was bankrupt
in hope and purpose. Nothing had gone right; nothing would ever go
right; and, worse, I did not care. I drummed moodily upon my book.
Wasted! Yes, My life was wasted, utterly wasted.
[Illustration: "Hard Times"]
A voice hailed me by name, and Bob sat up, looking attentively at
me for his cue as to the treatment of the owner of it. I recognized
in him the principal of the telegraph school where I had gone until
my money gave out. He seemed suddenly struck by something.
"Why, what are you doing here?" he asked. I told him Bob and I were
just resting after a day of canvassing.
"Books!" he snorted. "I guess they won't make you rich. Now, how
would you like to be a reporter, if you have got nothing better
to do? The manager of a news agency down town asked me to-day to
find him a bright young fellow whom he could break in. It isn't
much--$10 a week to start with. But it is better than peddling
books, I know."
He poked over the book in my hand and read the title. "Hard Times,"
he said, with a little laugh.


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