Walter Sherwood's Probation

“No; but I should like to.”

“I think you are a confidence man, and are trying to take in a poor countryman. But I’ve read about you fellows in the papers, and I am on my guard. You’d better go away, or I may call a policeman.”

This certainly was turning the tables on Walter with a vengeance. For a fellow like Damon to accuse him of being a confidence man was something like the wolf’s charge against the lamb in AEsop’s fable.

Damon saw that Walter looked perplexed, and followed up the attack.

“If anybody has given you a check,” he said, “I don’t see what you’ve got to complain about. You’d better make use of it if you can.”

“Do you deny that your name is Damon?”

“Of course I do. My name is Kellogg—Nelson Kellogg, of Springfield, Illinois. I am in the city to buy goods.”

“And you don’t know Mr. Locke, of Locke & Green?”

“Never heard of the gentleman. If you’ve got a check of his, you’d better advertise for him. I wish my name was Locke. I shouldn’t mind receiving it myself.”

Here the waiter came up with Mr. Damon’s order, and that gentleman addressed himself to disposing of it.

Walter left the restaurant slowly, and walked in a dejected manner in the direction of the Palmer House. He began to think that he was a failure. When he was a student of Euclid College he was in his own estimation, a person of importance. Now he felt his insignificance. If the world owed him a living, it seemed doubtful if it was inclined to pay the debt.

CHAPTER XIX

WALTER MEETS PROFESSOR ROBINSON

Two weeks passed. Walter applied for all sorts of situations, but obtained no engagement. Meanwhile his money steadily diminished, till he awoke one morning to find only seventy-five cents in his purse. Things were getting decidedly serious.

“I wonder if there is any poorhouse in Chicago,” thought Walter, not wholly in jest. “It is not the sort of home I should prefer, but it is better than genteel starvation.”

He went out, breakfasted, and at the restaurant picked up a copy of the Chicago Times. This was a piece of luck, for it saved him from the small expenditure necessary to secure it. He turned to the department of Help Wanted, and looking down the column came to this notice:

“WANTED—By a traveling lecturer, a young man who can make himself generally useful; one who plays the violin preferred. Apply to PROFESSOR ROBINSON, Hotel Brevoort.”

Walter knew this hotel. It was located on Madison Street, and was on the European plan.

“That will suit me,” he said to himself. “I must lose no time in making application. I can play the violin fairly well. If it will help me to a position, I will bless the violin.”

In ten minutes he was at the hotel, inquiring for Professor Robinson.

“He is in his room,” said the clerk, “You can go up at once.”

Guided by a bell-boy, Walter reached the door of No. 65 and knocked.

“Come in!” said a deep bass voice.

Opening the door he found himself in the presence of a stout man, inclined to be tall, with a long, full beard, who glanced at him inquiringly.

“Professor Robinson, I believe?” said Walter.

“I am the man,” answered the professor.

“I have come to apply for a position. I have read your advertisement in the Times.”

“Just so! Let me look at you.”

Walter blushed a little while the professor transfixed him with his glittering eye. He anxiously hoped that he would bear inspection.

“Humph! I think you’ll do. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

In fact, Walter’s birthday had been passed in Chicago.

“You are rather young. Can you play on the violin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me hear you.”

The professor pointed to a violin on the bed.

“I am glad he doesn’t expect me to furnish the violin,” Walter said to himself.

He took the instrument from its case, and trying the strings began to play a series of familiar airs. The violin was not a Stradivarius, but it was of good quality, and responded satisfactorily to the efforts of the young musician. Professor Robinson listened attentively, and nodded his approval.

“You play better than the last young man I had.”

Walter was glad to hear it.

“I may as well tell you the nature of your duties, in case I engage you. I call myself a traveling lecturer, but this may convey an erroneous idea. I am the discoverer of Professor Robinson’s Liquid Balm, which is warranted to cure more diseases than any other patent preparation in existence. I won’t go into particulars, for these can be read in my circular. Now, it is my custom to go from one town to another, engage a hall if the weather requires, otherwise gather a crowd around me in a public place, and lecture about the merits of my remarkable preparation. You, besides assisting me in a general way, are expected to draw and entertain the crowd by your performance on the violin. Can you sing?”

Walter shook his head.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that if I should undertake to sing it would drive away the crowd.”

“Very well! It isn’t necessary, though it would have helped. Now, what are your ideas as to compensation?”

As the professor spoke, he leaned back in his chair and awaited a reply.

“I hardly know what it would be right to ask,” returned Walter hesitatingly. “How much did you pay your last assistant?”

“I paid him fifteen dollars a month and his traveling expenses.”

This was a good deal more than Walter had made since he had undertaken to earn his own living, yet there seemed small chance of laying up anything out of it.

“May I ask, sir,” he inquired, “do you meet with pretty good success in disposing of your balm?”

“Yes; the public knows a good thing when it is brought to its attention.”