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His preference for Fitzgerald and
Moy's Adams Street place was another yard off the same cloth.
This was really a gorgeous saloon from a Chicago standpoint. Like
Rector's, it was also ornamented with a blaze of incandescent lights, held
in handsome chandeliers. The floors were of brightly coloured tiles, the walls a
composition of rich, dark, polished wood, which reflected the light, and
coloured stucco-work, which gave the place a very sumptuous appearance.
The long bar was a blaze of lights, polished woodwork, coloured and
cut glassware, and many fancy bottles.
It was a truly swell saloon, with rich screens, fancy wines, and a
line of bar goods unsurpassed in the country.
At Rector's, Drouet had met Mr.
G. W. Hurstwood, manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's.
He had been pointed out as a very successful and well-known man about
town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besides being slightly under forty, he
had a good, stout constitution, an active manner, and a solid, substantial
air, which was composed in part of his fine clothes, his clean linen, his
jewels, and, above all, his own sense of his importance. Drouet immediately conceived a notion of him as being some
one worth knowing, and was glad not only to meet him, but to visit the Adams
Street bar thereafter whenever he wanted a drink or a cigar.
Hurstwood was an interesting
character after his kind. He was shrewd and clever in many little things,
and capable of creating a good impression.
His managerial position was fairly important-- a kind of stewardship
which was imposing, but lacked financial control.
He had risen by perseverance and industry, through long years of
service, from the position of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to his
present altitude. He had a
little office in the place, set off in polished cherry and grill-work, where
he kept, in a roll-top desk, the rather simple accounts of the place--
supplies ordered and needed. The
chief executive and financial functions devolved upon the owners--Messrs.
Fitzgerald and Moy-- and upon a cashier who looked after the money taken in.
For the most part he lounged
about, dressed in excellent tailored suits of imported goods, a solitaire
ring, a fine blue diamond in his tie, a striking vest of some new pattern,
and a watch-chain of solid gold, which held a charm of rich design, and a
watch of the latest make and engraving.
He knew by name, and could greet personally with a "Well, old
fellow," hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the general
run of successful characters about town, and it was part of his success to
do so. He had a finely graduated scale of informality and friendship, which
improved from the "How do you do?" addressed to the
fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attaches, who, by long frequenting
of the place, became aware of his position, to the "Why, old man, how
are you?" which he addressed to those noted or rich individuals who
knew him and were inclined to be friendly. There was a class, however, too
rich, too famous, or too successful, with whom he could not attempt any
familiarity of address, and with these he was professionally tactful,
assuming a grave and dignified attitude, paying them the deference which
would win their good feeling without in the least compromising his own
bearing and opinions. There
were, in the last place, a few good followers, neither rich nor poor,
famous, nor yet remarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the
score of good-fellowship. These were the kind of men with whom he would
converse longest and most seriously. He
loved to go out and have a good time once in a while--to go to the races,
the theatres, the sporting entertainments at some of the clubs.
He kept a horse and neat trap, had his wife and two children, who
were well established in a neat house on the North Side near Lincoln Park,
and was altogether a very acceptable individual of our great American upper
class--the first grade below the luxuriously rich.
Hurstwood liked Drouet.
The latter's genial nature and dressy appearance pleased him.
He knew that Drouet was only a travelling salesman--and not one of
many years at that--but the firm of Bartlett, Caryoe & Company was a
large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood well. Hurstwood knew Caryoe
quite well, having drunk a glass now and then with him, in company with
several others, when the conversation was general.
Drouet had what was a help in his business, a moderate sense of
humour, and could tell a good story when the occasion required.
He could talk races with Hurstwood, tell interesting incidents
concerning himself and his experiences with women, and report the state of
trade in the cities which he visited, and so managed to make himself almost
invariably agreeable. To-night
he was particularly so, since his report to the company had been favourably
commented upon, his new samples had been satisfactorily selected, and his
trip marked out for the next six weeks.
"Why, hello, Charlie, old
man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in that evening about eight
o'clock. "How goes
it?" The room was crowded.
Drouet shook hands, beaming good
nature, and they strolled towards the bar.
"Oh, all right."
"I haven't seen you in six
weeks. When did you get
in?"
"Friday," said Drouet.
"Had a fine trip."
"Glad of it," said
Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which half displaced the cold
make-believe that usually dwelt in them.
"What are you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper,
in snowy jacket and tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar.
"Old Pepper," said
Drouet.
"A little of the same for
me," put in Hurstwood.
"How long are you in town
this time?" inquired Hurstwood.
"Only until Wednesday.
I'm going up to St. Paul."
"George Evans was in here
Saturday and said he saw you in Milwaukee last week."
"Yes, I saw George,"
returned Drouet. "Great
old boy, isn't he? We had quite a time there together."
The barkeeper was setting out the
glasses and bottle before them, and they now poured out the draught as they
talked, Drouet filling his to within a third of full, as was considered
proper, and Hurstwood taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying
it with seltzer.
"What's become of Caryoe?"
remarked Hurstwood. "I
haven't seen him around here in two weeks."
"Laid up, they say,"
exclaimed Drouet. "Say,
he's a gouty old boy!"
"Made a lot of money in his
time, though, hasn't he?"
"Yes, wads of it,"
returned Drouet. "He won't
live much longer. Barely comes down to the office now."
"Just one boy, hasn't
he?" asked Hurstwood.
"Yes, and a
swift-pacer," laughed Drouet.
"I guess he can't hurt the
business very much, though, with the other members all there."
"No, he can't injure that
any, I guess."
Hurstwood was standing, his coat
open, his thumbs in his pockets, the light on his jewels and rings relieving
them with agreeable distinctness. He
was the picture of fastidious comfort.
To one not inclined to drink, and
gifted with a more serious turn of mind, such a bubbling, chattering,
glittering chamber must ever seem an anomaly, a strange commentary on nature
and life. Here come the moths, in endless procession, to bask in the light
of the flame. Such conversation as one may hear would not warrant a
commendation of the scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that
schemers would choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that
politicians would not gather here in company to discuss anything save
formalities, where the sharp- eared may hear, and it would scarcely be
justified on the score of thirst, for the majority of those who frequent
these more gorgeous places have no craving for liquor. Nevertheless, the
fact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to pass and rub elbows,
must be explained upon some grounds. It must be that a strange bundle of passions and vague
desires give rise to such a curious social institution or it would not be.
Drouet, for one, was lured as
much by his longing for pleasure as by his desire to shine among his
betters. The many friends he met here dropped in because they craved,
without, perhaps, consciously analysing it, the company, the glow, the
atmosphere which they found. One might take it, after all, as an augur of
the better social order, for the things which they satisfied here, though
sensory, were not evil. No evil
could come out of the contemplation of an expensively decorated chamber.
The worst effect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up in the
material-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a similarly splendid
basis. In the last analysis, that would scarcely be called the fault of the
decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind.
That such a scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate
the more expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anything
save the false ambition of the minds of those so affected.
Remove the element so thoroughly and solely complained
of--liquor--and there would not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty
and enthusiasm which would remain. The
pleased eye with which our modern restaurants of fashion are looked upon is
proof of this assertion.
Yet, here is the fact of the
lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy company, the small, self-interested
palaver, the disorganized, aimless, wandering mental action which it
represents--the love of light and show and finery which, to one outside,
under the serene light of the eternal stars, must seem a strange and shiny
thing. Under the stars and sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it must
bloom; a strange, glittering night-flower, odour-yielding, insect-drawing,
insect-infested rose of pleasure.
"See that fellow coming in
there?" said Hurstwood, glancing at a gentleman just entering, arrayed
in a high hat and Prince Albert coat, his fat cheeks puffed and red as with
good eating.
"No, where?" said
Drouet.
"There," said Hurstwood,
indicating the direction by a cast of his eye, "the man with the silk
hat."
"Oh, yes," said Drouet,
now affecting not to see. "Who
is he?"
"That's Jules Wallace, the
spiritualist."
Drouet followed him with his
eyes, much interested.
"Doesn't look much like a
man who sees spirits, does he?" said Drouet.
"Oh, I don't know,"
returned Hurstwood. "He's
got the money, all right," and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.
"I don't go much on those
things, do you?" asked Drouet.
"Well, you never can
tell," said Hurstwood. "There
may be something to it. I
wouldn't bother about it myself, though.
By the way," he added, "are you going anywhere
to-night?"
"'The Hole in the
Ground,'" said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of the time.
"Well, you'd better be
going. It's half after eight
already," and he drew out his watch.
The crowd was already thinning
out considerably--some bound for the theatres, some to their clubs, and some
to that most fascinating of all the pleasures--for the type of man there
represented, at least--the ladies.
"Yes, I will," said
Drouet.
"Come around after the show.
I have something I want to show you," said Hurstwood.
"Sure," said Drouet,
elated.
"You haven't anything on
hand for the night, have you?" added Hurstwood.
"Not a thing."
"Well, come round,
then."
"I struck a little peach
coming in on the train Friday," remarked Drouet, by way of parting.
"By George, that's so, I must go and call on her before I go
away."
"Oh, never mind her,"
Hurstwood remarked.
"Say, she was a little
dandy, I tell you," went on Drouet confidentially, and trying to
impress his friend.
"Twelve o'clock," said
Hurstwood.
"That's right," said
Drouet, going out.
Thus was Carrie's name bandied
about in the most frivolous and gay of places, and that also when the little
toiler was bemoaning her narrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the
early stages of this, her unfolding fate.
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