“Are you commercial?” asked the clerk.

“Not at present, sir.”

“We make special terms for commercial travelers. We will give you a small room on the third floor for one dollar and a half a day.”

This was as cheap as Walter expected to find it at a hotel, and he signified his acceptance.

“Front!” called the clerk.

A red-haired boy about Walter's age came forward.

“Take this young man up to No. 36,” said the clerk.

“Yessir,” answered the bell-boy, pronouncing the two words in one.

There was no elevator in the house, and Walter followed the boy up two flights of stairs to the third landing. The boy opened the door of a room with a small window looking out into an inner court.

“Here you are!” he said, and he put the valise on the floor.

“Thank you,” said Walter.

As he spoke¹ he drew a dime² from his vest pocket and deposited it in the hand of the red-haired attendant.

The effect was magical. The bell-boy's listless manner vanished, his dull face lighted up, and his manner became brisk.

“Thank you, sir. Is there anything you want? If you do, I'll get it for you.”

Walter looked about him. Soap, water, towels—all were in sight.

“Not just now,” he answered, “but I am going to take a wash, and shall probably use up all the water. Some time this evening you may bring me some more.”

“All right, sir. Just you ring when you want it.”

He went off, and Walter was left alone. First, he took a thorough wash, which refreshed him very much after his long and dusty ride. Then he changed his linen³, brushed his clothes with a hand-brush he had brought in his valise and carefully combed his hair.

“I feel a hundred per cent. better,” he soliloquized. “Here I am in Chicago and now the battle of life is to begin.”

Walter was sanguine⁴ and full of hope. His life had always been easy, and he did not know what it was to work for a living. Besides, the fact may as well be told—he had a very comfortable opinion of his own abilities. He felt that he was no common boy. Was he not a

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