But the cruel competition, the thousands fighting for places, the
multitude scrambling for each ginger-bread baton, the cold faces on the
streets--perhaps it's all right and good; of course it has to _be_--but I
wanted to get out of it, though I didn't want to come _here_. That was
chance. A new man bought the paper I was working for, and its policy
changed. Many of the same men still wrote for it, facing cheerfully about
and advocating a tricky theory, vehement champions of a set of personal
schemers and waxy images."
He spoke with feeling; but now, as though a trifle ashamed of too much
seriousness, and justifiably afraid of talking like one of his own
editorials, he took a lighter tone. "I had been taken on the paper through
a friend and not through merit, and by the same undeserved, kindly
influence, after a month or so I was set to writing short political
editorials, and was at it nearly two years. When the paper changed hands
the new proprietor indicated that he would be willing to have me stay and
write the other way. I refused; and it became somewhat plain to me that I
was beginning to be a failure.
"A cousin of mine, the only relative I had, died in Chicago, and I went to
his funeral. I happened to hear of the Carlow 'Herald' through an agent
there, the most eloquent gentleman I ever met.
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