This idea of appealing to the president of one of the great railroads that entered New York was not so difficult to execute.  Eugene dressed himself very carefully the next morning, and going to the office of the company in Forty-second Street, consulted the list of officers posted in one of the halls, and finding the president to be on the third floor, ascended.  He discovered, after compelling himself by sheer will power to enter, that this so-called office was a mere anteroom to a force of assistants serving the president, and that no one could see him except by appointment.

“You might see his secretary if he isn’t busy,” suggested the clerk who handled his card gingerly.

Eugene was for the moment undetermined what to do but decided that maybe the secretary could help him.  He asked that his card might be taken to him and that no explanation be demanded of him except by the secretary in person.  The latter came out after a while, an under secretary of perhaps twenty-eight years of age, short and stout.  He was bland and apparently good natured.

“What is it I can do for you?” he asked.

Eugene had been formulating his request in his mind-some method of putting it briefly and simply.

“I came up to see Mr. Wilson,” he said, “to see if he would not send me out as a day-laborer of some kind in connection with some department of the road.  I am an artist by profession and I am suffering from neurasthenia.  All the doctors I have consulted have recommended that I get a simple, manual position of some kind and work at it until I am well.  I know of an instance in which Mr. Wilson, assisted, in this way, Mr. Savin the author, and I thought he might be willing to interest himself in my case.”

At the sound of Henry Savin’s name the under-secretary pricked up his ears.  He had, fortunately, read one of his books, and this together with Eugene’s knowledge of the case, his personal appearance, a certain ring of sincerity in what he was saying, caused him to be momentarily interested.

“There is no position in connection with any clerical work which the president could give you, I am sure,” he replied.  “All of these things are subject to a system of promotion.  It might be that he could place you with one of the construction gangs in one of the departments under a foreman.  I don’t know.  It’s very hard work, though.  He might consider your case.”  He smiled commiseratingly.  “I question whether you’re strong enough to do anything of that sort.  It takes a pretty good man to wield a pick or a shovel.”

“I don’t think I had better worry about that now,” replied Eugene in return, smiling wearily.  “I’ll take the work and see if it won’t help me.  I think I need it badly enough.”

He was afraid the under-secretary would repent of his suggestion and refuse him entirely.

“Can you wait a little while?” asked the latter curiously.  He had the idea that Eugene was someone of importance, for he had suggested as a parting argument that he could give a number of exceptional references.

“Certainly,” said Eugene, and the secretary went his way, coming back in half an hour to hand him an enveloped letter.

“We have the idea,” he said quite frankly waiving any suggestion of the president’s influence in the matter and speaking for himself and the secretary-in-chief, with whom he had agreed that Eugene ought to be assisted, “that you had best apply to the engineering department.  Mr. Hobsen, the chief-engineer, can arrange for you.  This letter I think will get you what you want.”

Eugene’s heart bounded.  He looked at the superscription and saw it addressed to Mr. Woodruff Hobsen, Chief Engineer, and putting it in his pocket without stopping to read it, but thanking the under-secretary profusely, went out.  In the hall at a safe distance he stopped and opened it, finding that it spoke of him familiarly as “Mr. Eugene Witla, an artist, temporarily incapacitated by neurasthenia,” and went on to say that he was “desirous of being appointed to some manual toil in some construction corps.  The president’s office recommends this request to your favor.”

When he read this he knew it meant a position.  It roused curious feelings as to the nature and value of stratification.  As a laborer he was nothing:  as an artist he could get a position as a laborer.  After all, his ability as an artist was worth something.  It obtained him this refuge.  He hugged it joyously, and a few moments later handed it to an under-secretary in the Chief-Engineer’s office.  Without being seen by anyone in authority he was in return given a letter to Mr. William Haverford, “Engineer of Maintenance of Way,” a pale, anæmic gentleman of perhaps forty years of age, who, as Eugene learned from him when he was eventually ushered into his presence a half hour later, was a captain of thirteen thousand men.  The latter read the letter from the Engineer’s office curiously.  He was struck by Eugene’s odd mission and his appearance as a man.  Artists were queer.  This was like one.  Eugene reminded him of himself a little in his appearance.

“An artist,” he said interestedly.  “So you want to work as a day laborer?” He fixed Eugene with clear, coal-black eyes looking out of a long, pear-shaped face.  Eugene noticed that his hands were long and thin and white and that his high, pale forehead was crowned by a mop of black hair.

“Neurasthenia.  I’ve heard a great deal about that of late, but have never been troubled that way myself.  I find that I derive considerable benefit when I am nervous from the use of a rubber exerciser.  You have seen them perhaps?”

“Yes,” Eugene replied, “I have.  My case is much too grave for that, I think.  I have traveled a great deal.  But it doesn’t seem to do me any good.  I want work at something manual, I fancy-something at which I have to work.  Exercise in a room would not help me.  I think I need a complete change of environment.  I will be much obliged if you will place me in some capacity.”

“Well, this will very likely be it,” suggested Mr. Haverford blandly.  “Working as a day-laborer will certainly not strike you as play.  To tell you the truth, I don’t think you can stand it.”  He reached for a glass-framed map showing the various divisions of the railroad stretching from New England to Chicago and St. Louis, and observed quietly.  “I could send you to a great many places, Pennsylvania, New York, Ohio, Michigan, Canada.”  His finger roved idly about.  “I have thirteen thousand men in my department and they are scattered far and wide.”

Eugene marveled.  Such a position!  Such authority!  This pale, dark man sitting as an engineer at a switch board directing so large a machine.

“You have a large force,” he said simply.  Mr. Haverford smiled wanly.

“I think, if you will take my advice, you will not go in a construction corps right away.  You can hardly do manual labor.  There is a little carpenter shop which we have at Speonk, not very far outside the city, which I should think would answer your needs admirably.  A little creek joins the Hudson there and it’s out on a point of land, the shop is.  It’s summer now, and to put you in a broiling sun with a gang of Italians would be a little rough.  Take my advice and go here.  It will be hard enough.  After you are broken in and you think you want a change I can easily arrange it for you.  The money may not make so much difference to you but you may as well have it.  It will be fifteen cents an hour.  I will give you a letter to Mr. Litlebrown, our division engineer, and he will see that you are properly provided for.”

Eugene bowed.  Inwardly he smiled at the thought that the money would not be acceptable to him.  Anything would be acceptable.  Perhaps this would be best.  It was near the city.  The description of the little carpenter shop out on the neck of land appealed to him.  It was, as he found when he looked at the map of the immediate division to which this belonged, almost within the city limits.  He could live in New York-the upper portion of it anyhow.

Again there was a letter, this time to Mr. Henry C. Litlebrown, a tall, meditative, philosophic man whom Eugene found two days later in the division offices at Yonkers, who in turn wrote a letter to Mr. Joseph Brooks, Superintendent of Buildings, at Mott Haven, whose secretary finally gave Eugene a letter to Mr. Jack Stix, foreman carpenter at Speonk.  This letter, when presented on a bright Friday afternoon, brought him the advice to come Monday at seven A. M., and so Eugene saw a career as a day laborer stretching very conspicuously before him.

The “little shop” in question was located in the most charming manner possible.  If it had been set as a stage scene for his especial artistic benefit it could not have been better.  On a point of land between the river and the main line of the railroad and a little creek, which was east of the railroad and which the latter crossed on a trestle to get back to the mainland again, it stood, a long, low two-storey structure, green as to its roof, red as to its body, full of windows which commanded picturesque views of passing yachts and steamers and little launches and row-boats anchored safely in the waters of the cove which the creek formed.  There was a veritable song of labor which arose from this shop, for it was filled with planes, lathes and wood-turning instruments of various kinds, to say nothing of a great group of carpenters who could make desks, chairs, tables, in short, office furniture of various kinds, and who kept the company’s needs of these fittings for its depots and offices well supplied.  Each carpenter had a bench before a window on the second floor, and in the centre were the few necessary machines they were always using, small jig, cross cut, band and rip saws, a plane, and four or five lathes.  On the ground floor was the engine room, the blacksmith’s shop, the giant plane, the great jig and cross cut saws, and the store room and supply closets.  Out in the yard were piles of lumber, with tracks in between, and twice every day a local freight called “The Dinky” stopped to switch in or take out loaded cars of lumber or finished furniture and supplies.  Eugene, as he approached on the day he presented his letter, stopped to admire the neatness of the low board fence which surrounded it all, the beauty of the water, the droning sweetness of the saws.

“Why, the work here couldn’t be very hard,” he thought.  He saw carpenters looking out of the upper windows, and a couple of men in brown overalls and jumpers unloading a car.  They were carrying great three-by-six joists on their shoulders.  Would he be asked to do anything like that.  He scarcely thought so.  Mr. Haverford had distinctly indicated in his letter to Mr. Litlebrown that he was to be built up by degrees.  Carrying great joists did not appeal to him as the right way, but he presented his letter.  He had previously looked about on the high ground which lay to the back of the river and which commanded this point of land, to see if he could find a place to board and lodge, but had seen nothing.  The section was very exclusive, occupied by suburban New Yorkers of wealth, and they were not interested in the proposition which he had formulated in his own mind, namely his temporary reception somewhere as a paying guest.  He had visions of a comfortable home somewhere now with nice people, for strangely enough the securing of this very minor position had impressed him as the beginning of the end of his bad luck.  He was probably going to get well now, in the course of time.  If he could only live with some nice family for the summer.  In the fall if he were improving, and he thought he might be, Angela could come on.  It might be that one of the dealers, Pottle Frères or Jacob Bergman or Henry LaRue would have sold a picture.  One hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars joined to his salary would go a long way towards making their living moderately comfortable.  Besides Angela’s taste and economy, coupled with his own art judgment, could make any little place look respectable and attractive.

The problem of finding a room was not so easy.  He followed the track south to a settlement which was visible from the shop windows a quarter of a mile away, and finding nothing which suited his taste as to location, returned to Speonk proper and followed the little creek inland half a mile.  This adventure delighted him for it revealed a semi-circle of charming cottages ranged upon a hill slope which had for its footstool the little silvery-bosomed stream.  Between the stream and the hill slope ran a semi-circular road and above that another road.  Eugene could see at a glance that here was middle class prosperity, smooth lawns, bright awnings, flower pots of blue and yellow and green upon the porches, doorsteps and verandas.  An auto standing in front of one house indicated a certain familiarity with the ways of the rich, and a summer road house, situated at the intersection of a road leading out from New York and the little stream where it was crossed by a bridge, indicated that the charms of this village were not unknown to those who came touring and seeking for pleasure.  The road house itself was hung with awnings and one dining balcony out over the water.  Eugene’s desire was fixed on this village at once.  He wanted to live here-anywhere in it.  He walked about under the cool shade of the trees looking at first one door yard and then another wishing that he might introduce himself by letter and be received.  They ought to welcome an artist of his ability and refinement and would, he thought, if they knew.  His working in a furniture factory or for the railroad as a day laborer for his health simply added to his picturesque character.  In his wanderings he finally came upon a Methodist church quaintly built of red brick and grey stone trimmings, and the sight of its tall, stained glass windows and square fortress-like bell-tower gave him an idea.  Why not appeal to the minister?  He could explain to him what he wanted, show him his credentials-for he had with him old letters from editors, publishers and art houses-and give him a clear understanding as to why he wanted to come here at all.  His ill health and distinction ought to appeal to this man, and he would probably direct him to some one who would gladly have him.  At five in the afternoon he knocked at the door and was received in the pastor’s study-a large still room in which a few flies were buzzing in the shaded light.  In a few moments the minister himself came in-a tall, grey-headed man, severely simple in his attire and with the easy air of one who is used to public address.  He was about to ask what he could do for him when Eugene began with his explanation.

“You don’t know me at all.  I am a stranger in this section.  I am an artist by profession and I am coming to Speonk on Monday to work in the railroad shop there for my health.  I have been suffering from a nervous breakdown and am going to try day labor for awhile.  I want to find a convenient, pleasant place to live, and I thought you might know of someone here, or near here, who might be willing to take me in for a little while.  I can give excellent references.  There doesn’t appear to be anything in the immediate neighborhood of the shop.”

“It is rather isolated there,” replied the old minister, studying Eugene carefully.  “I have often wondered how all those men like it, traveling so far.  None of them live about here.”  He looked at Eugene solemnly, taking in his various characteristics.  He was not badly impressed.  He seemed to be a reserved, thoughtful, dignified young man and decidedly artistic.  It struck him as very interesting that he should be trying so radical a thing as day labor for his nerves.

“Let me see,” he said thoughtfully.  He sat down in his chair near his table and put his hand over his eyes.  “I don’t think of anyone just at the moment.  There are plenty of families who have room to take you if they would, but I question very much whether they would.  In fact I’m rather sure they wouldn’t.  Let me see now.”

He thought again.

Eugene studied his big aquiline nose, his shaggy grey eyebrows, his thick, crisp, grey hair.  Already his mind was sketching him, the desk, the dim walls, the whole atmosphere of the room.

“No, no,” he said slowly.  “I don’t think of anyone.  There is one family-Mrs. Hibberdell.  She lives in the-let me see-first, second, third, tenth house above here.  She has one nephew with her at present, a young man of about your age, and I don’t think anyone else.  I don’t know that she would consider taking you in, but she might.  Her house is quite large.  She did have her daughter with her at one time, but I’m not sure that she’s there now.  I think not.”

He talked as though he were reporting his own thoughts to himself audibly.

Eugene pricked up his ears at the mention of a daughter.  During all the time he had been out of New York he had not, with the exception of Frieda, had a single opportunity to talk intimately with any girl.  Angela had been with him all the time.  Here in New York since he had been back he had been living under such distressing conditions that he had not thought of either youth or love.  He had no business to be thinking of it now, but this summer air, this tree-shaded village, the fact that he had a position, small as it was, on which he could depend and which would no doubt benefit him mentally, and that he was somehow feeling better about himself because he was going to work, made him feel that he might look more interestedly on life again.  He was not going to die; he was going to get well.  Finding this position proved it.  And he might go to the house now and find some charming girl who would like him very much.  Angela was away.  He was alone.  He had again the freedom of his youth.  If he were only well and working!

He thanked the old minister very politely and went his way, recognizing the house by certain details given him by the minister, a double balconied veranda, some red rockers, two yellow jardinieres at the doorstep, a greyish white picket fence and gate.  He walked up smartly and rang the bell.  A very intelligent woman of perhaps fifty-five or sixty with bright grey hair and clear light blue eyes was coming out with a book in her hand.  Eugene stated his case.  She listened with keen interest, looking him over the while.  His appearance took her fancy, for she was of a strong intellectual and literary turn of mind.

“I wouldn’t ordinarily consider anything of the kind, but I am alone here with my nephew and the house could easily accommodate a dozen.  I don’t want to do anything which will irritate him, but if you will come back in the morning I will let you know.  It would not disturb me to have you about.  Do you happen to know of an artist by the name of Deesa?”

“I know him well,” replied Eugene.  “He’s an old friend of mine.”

“He is a friend of my daughter’s, I think.  Have you enquired anywhere else here in the village?”

“No,” said Eugene.

“That is just as well,” she replied.

He took the hint.

So there was no daughter here.  Well, what matter?  The view was beautiful.  Of an evening he could sit out here in one of the rocking chairs and look at the water.  The evening sun, already low in the west was burnishing it a bright gold.  The outline of the hill on the other side was dignified and peaceful.  He could sleep and work as a day laborer and take life easy for a while.  He could get well now and this was the way to do it.  Day laborer!  How fine, how original, how interesting.  He felt somewhat like a knight-errant reconnoitring a new and very strange world.