University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
A HORNET'S NEST.

Dennis awoke greatly refreshed and strengthened.
For half an hour he lay quietly thinking over the scenes
of the preceding day; something of his old anger returned,
but he compressed his lips, and with a face expressing
the most resolute purpose, determined that the day before
him should tell a different story. Every faculty and energy
he possessed should be skilfully bent to the attainment
of his objects. Wise deliberation should precede everything.
He would write a few lines to his mother, decide
as to a lodging place, and then seek better success in another
part of the city. He went to the bar and inquired
as to his bill, and found that so far as bed and meals were
concerned, such as they were he could not find anything
cheaper in the city, the house evidently not depending on
these for its revenue. Disgusted as he was with his surroundings,
he resolved to lose no time in looking for a
new boarding place, but, after writing to his mother, start
off at once in search of something permanent. He was in
no mood to consult personal pleasure or wishes, and the
saving of time and money settled the question.

Where should he write? There was no place save a desk
at the end of the bar. Looking askance at the half-filled,

villanously-smelling bottle at his elbow, he wrote in a hand
stiff and unnatural (for he had resolved to change his scrawl
to a business hand at once), the following note:

“There! there is nothing in that to worry mother, and
soon I shall have good news for her.” If he had seen its
reception, he would have learned differently. The intuitions
of love are keen, and this formal negative note in
the constrained hand, told more of his disappointment
than any words. While he knew it not, his mother was
suffering with him. She wrote a letter in reply full of
general sympathy, intending to be more specific when he
gave her his confidence.

Dennis folded the letter most carefully and mailed it—
for he was now doing the least thing with the utmost precision—with
the air of one who meant to find out the
right thing to do, and then to do it to a hair's breadth.
Nothing should go wrong that day. So quite early in the
morning he again sallied forth.

Not far from the hotel there was a new grocery store
at the point of being opened by two young men, formerly
clerks, but now setting up for themselves. They stood at
the door receiving a cart load of goods as Dennis approached.
He had made up his mind to ask at every opportunity,
and take the first thing that promised fairly; he
would also be very polite. Touching his hat to the young

men,—a little act pleasing them in their newly acquired
dignity of becoming heads of a firm, which as yet had no
subordinates,—Dennis asked if they would need any assistance.
Graciously replying to his salutations, they answered,

“Yes, they wanted a young man.”

Dennis explained that he was from the country, and
showed the ministerial letter. The young grocers looked
wise over it, seemed pleased, said they wanted a young
fellow from the country, that was not up to city tricks.
Chicago was a hard place on young men—spoiled most of
them. Glad he was a member of the church—they were
not, but believed a man must be mighty good to be one.
As the young man they hired must sleep in the store, they
wanted one they could trust, and would prefer a church
member.

The salary they offered was not large, but pretty fair in
view of his having so much to learn, and it was intimated,
that if business was good, and he suited, it would be increased.
The point uppermost in their minds seemed to
be to find some one with whom they could trust their store
and goods, and this young man from the country, with a
letter from a minister, seemed a God-send.

They engaged him, but just as he was starting, with
heart swelling with self-satisfaction and joy, one of the
firm asked carelessly,

“Where are you staying?”

“At Gamblin's Hotel.”

The man turned sharply, and looked most suspiciously
at him, and then at his partner, who gave a low whistle of
surprise, and also eyed the young man for a moment
askance. Then the men stepped aside, and there was a
brief whispered consultation. Dennis's heart sank within
him. He saw that something was wrong, but what, he

had not the least idea. The elder member of the embryo
firm now stepped up and said decidedly,

“Good-morning, young man; we shall not need your
services.”

“What do you mean?” cried Dennis in a voice of
mingled dismay and indignation.

The man's face was growing red as with anger, but he
said coldly,

“You had better move on. We understand.”

“But I don't understand, and your course toward me
is most unjust.”

Look here young man, we are too old birds to be
caught by any such light chaff as you have got about you.
You are a pretty church member, you are! You are a
smart one, you are; nice boy, just from the country; suppose
you do not know that Gamblin's Hotel is the worst
gambling hole in the city, and every other man that goes
there a known thief. Come, you had better move on if
you do not want to get into trouble. You will make nothing
here.”

“But I tell you, gentlemen,” cried Dennis, eagerly—

“You may tell what you please. We tell you that we
would not believe any one from that den under oath.
Now you leave!”

The last words were loud and threatening. The attention
of passers-by was drawn toward them, and Dennis
saw that further words were useless. In the minds of
shrewd, but narrow business men, not over honest themselves,
more acquainted with the trickery of the world
than its virtues, suspicion against any one is fatal, and
most assuredly so against a stranger with appearances unfavorable.

With heart well nigh bursting with anger, disappointment,
and shame, Dennis hastened away. He had been
regarded as a thief, or at best a blackleg, seeking the

position for some sinister purpose. This was the opening
scene of the day on which he determined that no mistakes
should be made, and here at the outset he had allowed
himself to be identified with a place of notorious ill-repute.

Reaching the hotel, he rushed up-stairs, got his trunk,
and then turned fiercely on the red-nosed bartender—

“Why did you not tell me what kind of a place this
was?”

“What kind of a place is it?” asked that functionary,
coolly, arms akimbo.

“You knew well enough. You knew I was not one
of your sort.”

“You do not mean to say that this is a bad place, do
you?” said the barkeeper in mock solemnity.

“Yes, the worst in Chicago. There is your money.”

“Hold on here, my small chicken, there is some money,
but not enough by a jug full. I want five dollars out
of you before you take that trunk off.”

“Why, this is sheer robbery,” exclaimed Dennis.

“O no; just keeping up the reputation of the house.
You say it is the worst in Chicago—must try and keep up
our reputation.”

“Little fear of that; I will not pay it,” and Dennis
started for his trunk.

“Here, let that trunk alone; and if yer do not give me
that five dollars cussed quick, I'll put a head on yer,” and
he of the red nose put his hands on the bar in readiness
to spring over.

“I say, young feller,” said a good-natured loafer standing
by, “you had better gin him the five dollars; for
Barney is the worst one in all Chicago to put a head on
a man.”

“And will you stand by and see this outrage?” said
Dennis, appealing to him.

“O gosh!” said the man, “I've got quarrels 'nough of

my own without getting my head broke for fellers I don't
know.”

Dennis was almost speechless from indignation. Conscious
of strength, his strong impulse for a moment was to
spring at the throat of the barkeeper and vent his rage on
him. For there is a latent tiger in every man. But a hand
seemed to hold him back, and a sober second thought came
over him. What! Dennis Fleet, the son of Ethel Fleet, and
a professing Christian, brawling, fighting in a bar-room,
a gambling den, and going out to seek a situation that
required confidence and fair-appearing, all blackened,
bruised and bleeding. As the truth flashed upon him, in
strong revulsion of feeling, he fairly turned pale and sick.

“There's the money,” said he, hoarsely, “and God forgive
you.”

In a moment he had taken his trunk and was gone.
The barkeeper stared after him, and then looked at the
money with a troubled and perplexed face.

“Wal,” said he, “I'm used enough to havin' folks ask
God to damn me, but I'm blessed if I ever had one to ask
him to forgive me, before. I'm plagued,” said he after a
moment, as the thought grew upon him, “I'm plagued if I
wouldn't give him back the money if he hadn't gone so
quick.”

With heart full of shame and bitterness, Dennis hastened
down the street. At the corner he met a policeman,
and told him his story. All the satisfaction he got was—

“You ought not to go to such a place. But you're
lucky if they only took five dollars from you; they don't let
off many as easy as that.”

“Can I have no redress?”

“Now look here; it's a pretty ticklish thing to interfere
with them fellers. It'll cost you plaguey sight more'n that,
and blood, too, like enough. If you'll take my advice, you
wont stir up that hornet's nest.”