Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 102: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

572 honest woman liked him. ‘“ Will you give me your new address so I can forward your mail?” . “Why, I—I haven’t decided on just the place,” Hill stammered. ‘I may have to go to a hotel for a day or two—” “Tl send your mail-to the hotel then—” “T tell you what you do,” said he seri- ously, “ just forward any mail to my office. That’s much safer. You never can tell about hotels!” Thus it happened that while his business future hung in the balance—while Morgan Hill went vainly from place to place seeking to establish his necessary credit out of noth- ing—nobody knew exactly where he did live. Nobody cared very much, except per- haps Alice Arnold, and it wasn’t her busi- ness to ask—and perhaps the owners of _ the Ajax Building, who, had they known, would probably have had the young man arrested for breaking at least a dozen city ordinances, including health and fire laws and violation of his lease besides. For Morgan Hill lived in his own offices! The stockroom door, which he was careful to keep locked, hid his dark secret from the world. Behind that partition supposed to guard a wealth in games of Peggony there was little enough in all truth—a spartan army cot with one blanket and an old over- coat for covering—a kitchen table once used for wrapping bundles and now furnished with a ten-cent store plate and cup, knives ind forks and an electric stove to cook upon. An empty packing case held the food which he smuggled in and could have held its proper quota of goods besides without un- due crowding. A drawer of his handsome flat top desk in the outer office concealed tooth- brush and shaving kit. With orders for his game pouring in upon him, owner and pro- prietor of a business that promised te make him a millionaire, Morgan Hill ate two frugal, home cooked meals a day—and he was an indifferent cook—and slept on an army cot, his dreams broken by nightmares of discovery by the building’s night watch- man. _ The night watch system was the hardest ‘part of it. One elevator ran until midnight, and all tenants passing in or out were re- quired to register and subsequently checked -ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, up by the watchman who made hourly rounds. Fearful of rousing suspicion by too frequent night appearances the wretched young man spent most nights a prisoner in his stockroom, hiding the glow of his light and trembling whenever the watchman’s hand tried the door. It was a cramped, dismal, galling life, but his office rent was paid in advance and he was saving fully twenty-five dollars a week—enough to keep up the fight at least a month longer. Well, he was still fighting and the fight was going to be won! To-night was the night! Hill fingered the telegram from Moody with caressing touch, rereading its brief notification that Mr. Moody would be glad to take dinner with him at the Ritzdorf that evening and discuss his proposition. Moody was the general manager of the Corona Company, the biggest paper novelty and game manufacturer of them all. One by one Hill had canvassed other manufac- turers and failed in his quest for credit. Alice Arnold suggested trying the Corona people. Hill was almost aghast, “* They wouldn’t look at me,” he argued. Alice insisted, and Hill was desperate. He wrote them his proposition. The Corona Company astonished him by displaying mild interest in his affairs. Correspondence fol- lowed, rapid and voluminous, as Alice Ar- nold could readily testify. Hill learned that the general manager would be in New York and staked everything on a personal inter- view. He invited Moody to dine with him and went out to pawn his watch. 3 Dinner at the Ritzdorf! Hull shuddered as he felt anxiously of the twenty-five dol- lars left from his recent transaction with the watch. The expense was fearful—almost suicidal—but it had to be done. Moody must be impressed with the idea that Peg- gony was a booming business. At least he’d get a decent meal! Always lately he seemed to be hungry, perpetually hungry. Perhaps going without lunches had something to do with it! He laid the telegram aside with a start. From a lower desk drawer he got out an electric fiat iron and unlocked the stock- room. Once in his sanctuary he gravely removed his trousers, laid them flat on a convenient packing case, and wetting 4 Ecomichooks (EO) “~