Part 6

“I’ve come for that job,” I informed him, with all my new courage of adventure. “And I’m just the man you’re looking for.”

“Oh, are you?” and he gave another of his critical sniffs, which I soon discovered to be habitual. “Well, come and sit down, and we’ll see. I may not be of your opinion.”

With his composing-stick still in his hand, he led the way to the corner where stood the ancient roll-top desk. He seated himself heavily in the creaking swivel-chair, and I pulled up another old chair that stood near. All this time he was studying me closely over his glasses.

“I’ve got the reputation,” he told me, after I was seated, “of never keeping a man very long.”

He waited to see if this was going to discourage me any. But it didn’t, and so he went on to say:-

“But the ones that come out here for a job are generally no good. Or, if they are, they get discouraged and don’t want to stay.”

“Well, I’m going to stay,” I said, “you can’t get rid of me. And I’m all to the good.”

Again he met my laughing gaze, and again he grinned. Then after studying me once more, he came to a decision. He rheumatically pulled himself to his feet and said:-

“Well, take off your coat and go to work.”

And that ended our conference. We made no sort of bargain, said nothing whatever about the pay I was to get, or what I was expected to do. It was like Ben Hutchins-that snap sort of conclusion. But once he has made up his mind, you may be sure that he will carry his part of the bargain to the end. Of course, I had to learn this about him. I thought then that he was just going to try me out, give me a chance to make good if I could.

I took off my overcoat and other coat, and hung them up with my hat. Then I found another printer’s dirty apron, and started in to work.

It may be hard to understand how a man, after having been employed for years in one of New York’s big printing-plants, should have finally found his life’s opportunity in that little country junk-shop of a printing-office. But that is what I did. I could not have done so, however, without having had the experience of the previous few days, as well as the new lessons I was learning all the time from the Voice.

It was because I was finding youth that I found my opportunity. Youth, which is courageous, venturesome, progressive, optimistic, and creative! Cowardly old age, pessimistic, stagnant, and traveling in ruts, never finds a big life-opportunity.

I had been at my new job two weeks. We had issued two editions of the weekly paper. I had done the work of editor, reporter, compositor, proof-reader, pressman, and mailing clerk. Every day I was growing more and more in love with my job. I whistled again like a boy, at my work-this, in spite of the fact that I was taking that long trip each night and morning to and from New York. It is not work-the kind that is made creative-but stagnation, which wearies.

New demands were stirring every part of my being into new activities. My faculties were all alert. So were my emotions, my imaginations, and my sense of humor. Values were being aroused in me that, for lack of something to call them into use, had all my life been lying dormant. I had never known that I could do some of the things which I now did. I had begun to take an interest in national and world affairs, about which I had to furnish copy. I also had begun to take more interest in people.

For years, when making my daily trips on the Elevated, I had most of the time kept my eyes glued to the latest criminal sensation in the newspapers. When I was not reading a newspaper, my thoughts were occupied with my own small interests.

The thing always of big importance was that I should beat someone else to a seat in the car. But now I began to watch and study that mass of humanity packed into the car with me. The mass resolved itself into individual beings. I picked out those having the old-age spirit from the ones who had the spirit of youth. By far the larger number-regardless of the years they had lived-were caught in the grip of the old-age fear, and were traveling in the old-age ruts. A good many, like little Miss Marsh, were trying to camouflage their old age by artificial means.

A new sympathy began to warm in my heart for mankind-so pitiably ignorant of Life and of the ways to gain its real joys. My New Yorker’s reserve began to relax, and I let myself do little helpful things for my fellow travelers. One night I helped an old East-Side Jew struggling under a load of second-hand clothing. The poor old chap’s surprised smile of appreciation brought a quick lump into my throat; and a kindlier feeling for the whole Jewish race warmed in my heart. I was growing tensely interested, too, in all the doings of our little New Jersey town. Each day I was making new friends. All of which meant a vitalizing of my heart’s stagnation.

My son George was well again, and had gone back to his work. Mattie-my wife-had come home. I had rented a small house not far from the printing-office, and we were getting ready to move to New Jersey.

Then, after I had been working for him two weeks, Ben Hutchins was seized with a bad attack of lumbago, and was laid up at home for a month. At the end of that time his daughter had persuaded him to go to California and spend the rest of the winter.

When he reached a final decision relative to this California trip, he sent for me to come and see him. I had been several times, during his sickness, to the big, old-fashioned house, where he lived with his widowed daughter. His wife was dead. When I went now we had another of our brief talks. He was going to leave the printing-plant entirely up to me.

“Run it as well as you can, and keep me posted how you’re coming on.”

He gave no further instructions. But by this time I had learned that he liked to be met in his own brief way of doing business-never wanted any fuss of words; when he felt justified in trusting a man, he trusted him absolutely. And I knew now that he felt this trust in me. When, on leaving, I shook hands with him, I gave him a tight grip of appreciation, and we exchanged a look of mutual understanding.

I had already hired another printer. And Mattie, now that we had moved over to our new home, came every day to the office and helped. I made a number of changes in the old plant. I even put into operation some of the modern efficiency methods which I had scorned in the New York plant. Our job printing was growing; and we were getting new subscribers and more advertising for the newspaper.

One day a peculiar thing happened. I had run over to New York, to get some new parts for our old press. This errand took me down town, in the neighborhood of the Sixth Avenue Elevated station, which had been a part of my daily rut for so many years. The sight of it now took me back to the day when I got my discharge. I smiled when I thought of how helpless I had stood there in the rain. It made me realize how far from the old rut I had traveled.

Then I thought of the old chap who had sold newspapers, and wondered if he was still working on his beat. I looked about for him and, sure enough, there he was, wearing the same ancient discolored straw hat. I followed and spoke to him. I had lost all fear now of being submerged in his old-age class. It was noon, and I asked him to go to lunch with me. He gazed in a daze of questioning surprise, then accepted the invitation.

I took him to a quiet little place, where we might have a table to ourselves. During the meal I learned more about him. His name was James Shaw, and he was alone in the world. He talked well-used good English. I had always felt that there must be something of intelligence back of his good clean teeth. And he, too, was an old printer. Probably that was why he had drifted naturally to the selling of newspapers. It is hard for a printer to keep away from the smell of printer’s ink.

Well, the upshot of it was that I hired Jimmy Shaw, and took him back with me to New Jersey. And Jimmy has made good. After he was barbered and had put on a new suit of clothes, and had his first lessons in Finding Youth, he was as spry and dudish as anything on Broadway.