Three wasted
years! Then I had one cent in my pocket, I remembered. To-day 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, that was right. My life
was wasted, utterly wasted.
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 downtown 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. "I guess so. What do you say? I think you
will do.
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