The Fortune Hunter | Page 3

you'd notice it--and not a cent.... I was too proud to look to my friends
for help in those days--and perhaps that was as well; I sought jobs on
my own.... Did you ever keep books in a fish-market?"
"No." Spaulding's eyes twinkled behind his large, shiny glasses.
"But what's the use of my boring you?" Duncan made as if to rise,
suddenly remembering himself.
"You're not. Go on."
"I didn't mean to; mostly, I presume, I've been blundering round an
explanation of Kellogg's kindness to me, in my usual ineffectual
way--felt somehow an explanation was due you, as the latest to suffer
through his misplaced interest in me."
"Perhaps," said Spaulding, "I am beginning to understand. Go on: I'm
interested. About the fish-market?"
"Oh, I just happened to think of it as a sample experience--and the last
of that particular brand. I got nine dollars a week and earned every cent
of it inhaling the atmosphere. My board cost me six and the other three
afforded me a chance to demonstrate myself a captain of
finance--paying laundry bills and clothing myself, besides buying

lunches and such-like small matters. I did the whole thing, you
know--one schooner of beer a day and made my own cigarettes: never
could make up my mind which was the worst. The hours were easy, too:
didn't have to get to work until five in the morning.... I lasted five
weeks at that job, before I was taken sick: shows what a great
constitution I've got."
He laughed uncertainly and paused, thoughtful, his eyes vacant, fixed
upon the retrospect that was a grim prospect of the imminent future.
"And then--?"
"Oh--?" Duncan roused. "Why, then I fell in with Kellogg again; he
found me trying the open-air cure on a bench in Washington Square.
Since then he's been finding me one berth after another. He's a
sure-enough optimist."
Spaulding shifted uneasily in his chair, stirred by an impulse whose
unwisdom he could not doubt. Duncan had assuredly done his case no
good by painting his shortcomings in colours so vivid; yet, somehow
strangely, Spaulding liked him the better for his open-hearted
confession.
"Well...." Spaulding stumbled awkwardly.
"Yes; of course," said Duncan promptly, rising. "Sorry if I tired you."
"What do you mean by: 'Yes, of course'?"
"That you called me in to fire me--and so that's over with. Only I'd be
sorry to have you sore on Kellogg for saddling me on you. You see, he
believed I'd make good, and so did I in a way: at least, I hoped to."
"Oh, that's all right," said Spaulding uncomfortably. "The trouble is,
you see, we've nothing else open just now. But if you'd really like
another chance on the road, I--I'll be glad to speak to Mr. Atwater about
it."
"Don't you do it!" Duncan counselled him sharply, aghast. "He might
say yes. And I simply couldn't accept; it wouldn't be fair to you,
Kellogg, or myself. It'd be charity--for I've proved I can't earn my
wages; and I haven't come to that yet. No!" he concluded with
determination, and picked up his hat.
"Just a minute." Spaulding held him with a gesture. "You're forgetting
something: at least I am. There's a month's pay coming to you; the
cashier will hand you the cheque as you go out."
"A month's pay?" Duncan said blankly. "How's that? I've drawn up to

the end of this week already, if you didn't know it."
"Of course I knew it. But we never let our men go without a month's
notice or its equivalent, and--"
"No," Duncan interrupted firmly. "No; but thank you just the same. I
couldn't. I really couldn't. It's good of you, but ... Now," he broke off
abruptly, "I've left my accounts--what there is of them--with the
book-keeping department, and the checks for my sample trunks.
There'll be a few dollars coming to me on my expense account, and I'll
send you my address as soon as I get one."
"But look here--" Spaulding got to his feet, frowning.
"No," reiterated Duncan positively. "There's no use. I'm grateful to you
for your toleration of me--and all that. But we can't do anything better
now than call it all off. Good-bye, Mr. Spaulding."
Spaulding nodded, accepting defeat with the better grace because of an
innate conviction that it was just as well, after all. And, furthermore, he
admired Duncan's stand. So he offered his hand: an unusual
condescension. "You'll make good somewhere yet," he asserted.
"I wish I could believe it." Duncan's grasp was firm since he felt more
assured of some humanity latent in his late employer. "However ...
Good-bye."
"Good luck to you," rang in his ears as the door put a period to the
interview. He stopped and took up the battered suitcase and rusty