He was disgustedly told to go out and
make good, instead of coming round and bothering busy people.
And Trotter went meekly out. But he had not made good.
He drifted hungrily about the great new city, the city that
seemed written in a cipher to which he could find no key. He even
guardedly shadowed the resentful-eyed Advance reporters on their
morning assignments, to get some chance inkling of the magic by
which the trick was turned. He wandered about the river front and
the ship wharves and the East Side street markets. He nosed
inquisitively and audaciously about anarchists' cellars and
lodging-houses; he found saloons where for a nickel very
palatable lamb stew could be purchased; he located those
swing-door corners where the most munificent free lunches were on
display; he dipped into halls where Socialistic fire-eaters
nightly stilettoed modern civilization; he invaded ginmills where
strange and barbaric sailors foregathered and talked. From all
this he was not learning Journalism. He was, however, learning
New York.
But now he had struck luck--sudden and unlooked for--in the
humble creation of "rhyme-ads" for a Sixth Avenue furniture
store.
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