The Argosy, Vol. 81, No. 4 — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

FOUR SPEEDS FOR FOREST HILL. Mrs. Polhemus. His efforts were futile, to | think of any possible excuse for his con- duct, save the true one that would only add insult to injury. The rest of the time he spent guessing whom he could strike for a loan of enough to get him to Cleveland. He got back to Herman. Then he reflected that Mrs. Pol- hemus would lose little time in answering her telegram. He could never square things with her husband. He resumed his walk. For what would have been an ordinary block in town, his step dragged, his shoulders drooped, his suit-case seemed a great weight. But he was free from another irksome, impossible job. Not even the price he had paid for that freedom could long hold him depressed. He had thrown off the shackles of the known; he faced that unknown which forever lured him with promises of his own imagining. “Aw, piffle!” he grunted; “who wants to go to Cleveland? It’s too thundering far from Broad and Market—and Forest Hill.” He squared his shoulders, quickened his step, his face toward the future. He was a genius; the future never worries a real genius. It is only the immediate present that irks. And Orton had shed the irk- some bondage of the present. He knew he was a genius. Had he doubted it, Mr, Polhemus’s quickness in arranging to put him in a place of respon- sibility would have removed the doubt. If Mr. Polhemus desired him, others would. As he descended to the sidewalk from the Broad Street station most of those abroad were wearing the wilted appearance of those who have lived half through a hot and humid day. Orton struck a brisk pace down the street, busy enough, though most of its stores and shops were closed for the half holiday. Flying jitneys, clanging cars, taxis, peo- ple, trucks, carriages, touring-cars and run- abouts, more people, noise, confusion, hur- ry, and perspiration—all the sights and sounds of the main thoroughfare of a big city—went like wine to his head. It was home, it was life—his life, as yet unmade, and more interesting for being unmade. He swung along down the wide sidewalk, eyes sparkling, nostrils dilated, a fine con- trast to the wilted humanity about him— down to the library, down the side of Wash- ington Park to Central Avenue— 631 There he paused, waiting for a break in the rush of traffic, so that he might cross. His eyes swept the other side of the street, the other garages there, the garage that had been his and still bore his name, and the name of the car he had made. The door was open wide. In it stood a brisk, prosperous-looking man of thirty-five, whom Orton did not know; a man with the air of proprietorship about him. Otherwise the place seemed as Orton had left it. In the window was a bright, brand-new Orton Car, with the very sign Orton had set up before the first car he had produced. The last time he had seen the place he had wished only that he might never look at it again. Now the sight of it induced a sudden utter home-sickness. Three weeks ago he had owned that place; his name had meant himself, not a mere brand. And now— The thing seemed impossible. For ten days he had been taking the orders of a shrewish woman, obeying them, answering them in the language and the tone and the manner of a domestic servant. He had thirteen dollars and some cents in his pockets now, and twelve and a half of that was to be paid to-night to a man who had been one of his own hired machinists and now could play his banker! He was wilted, perspiring, as he ascend- ed the steps of Mrs. Burney’s place a block and a half away. Mrs. Burney had let his room; he had told her not toshold it for him. For the present her only va- cancy was the hall-room on the top floor. A kindly soul was Mrs. Burney; but she had to make her living out of the board of her people. She deduced things from the lack of aplomb with which Orton had asked about his room, from the almost humble readiness with which he accepted the much inferior accommodations she could give him. She would not press him for payment to- day or to-morrow; but she hoped he would remember that her terms were strictly “in advance.” If he didn’t by to-morrow night she would have to remind him. In spite of the fact that the window had been open, the room was stiflingly hot and stuffy. Left alone, Orton removed his coat and collar. He felt an absurd, childish longing for something as comforting as a mother’s knee on which to lay his head. Of course, nerves and an empty stomach had a lot to do with it all. He had missed his lunch, forgotten it. He did not think EO PMICLOOOLKS (E©)