Chapter XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIII

Martin was steadily losing his battle. Economize as he would, the
earnings from hack-work did not balance expenses. Thanksgiving
found him with his black suit in pawn and unable to accept the
Morses' invitation to dinner. Ruth was not made happy by his
reason for not coming, and the corresponding effect on him was one
of desperation. He told her that he would come, after all; that he
would go over to San Francisco, to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office,
collect the five dollars due him, and with it redeem his suit of
clothes.

In the morning he borrowed ten cents from Maria. He would have
borrowed it, by preference, from Brissenden, but that erratic
individual had disappeared. Two weeks had passed since Martin had
seen him, and he vainly cudgelled his brains for some cause of
offence. The ten cents carried Martin across the ferry to San
Francisco, and as he walked up Market Street he speculated upon his
predicament in case he failed to collect the money. There would
then be no way for him to return to Oakland, and he knew no one in
San Francisco from whom to borrow another ten cents.

The door to the TRANSCONTINENTAL office was ajar, and Martin, in
the act of opening it, was brought to a sudden pause by a loud
voice from within, which exclaimed:- "But that is not the question,
Mr. Ford." (Ford, Martin knew, from his correspondence, to be the
editor's name.) "The question is, are you prepared to pay? - cash,
and cash down, I mean? I am not interested in the prospects of the
TRANSCONTINENTAL and what you expect to make it next year. What I
want is to be paid for what I do. And I tell you, right now, the
Christmas TRANSCONTINENTAL don't go to press till I have the money
in my hand. Good day. When you get the money, come and see me."

The door jerked open, and the man flung past Martin, with an angry
countenance and went down the corridor, muttering curses and
clenching his fists. Martin decided not to enter immediately, and
lingered in the hallways for a quarter of an hour. Then he shoved
the door open and walked in. It was a new experience, the first
time he had been inside an editorial office. Cards evidently were
not necessary in that office, for the boy carried word to an inner
room that there was a man who wanted to see Mr. Ford. Returning,
the boy beckoned him from halfway across the room and led him to
the private office, the editorial sanctum. Martin's first
impression was of the disorder and cluttered confusion of the room.
Next he noticed a bewhiskered, youthful-looking man, sitting at a
roll-top desk, who regarded him curiously. Martin marvelled at the
calm repose of his face. It was evident that the squabble with the
printer had not affected his equanimity.