I was fond of
the theater, but I did not dance well and on the rare occasions when
I did accompany the other fellows to the play and they laughed and
applauded and tried to flirt with the chorus girls, I fidgeted in my
seat and was uncomfortable. Not that I disapproved of their conduct; I
rather envied them, in fact. But if I laughed too heartily I was sure
that everyone was looking at me, and though I should have liked to
flirt, I didn't know how.

The few attempts I made were not encouraging. One evening--I was
nineteen then, or thereabouts--Charlie Burns, the clerk whom I have
mentioned, suggested that we get dinner downtown at a restaurant and "go
somewhere" afterward. I agreed--it happened to be Saturday night and I
had my pay in my pocket--so we feasted on oyster stew and ice cream and
then started for what my companion called a "variety show." Burns, who
cherished the fond hope that he was a true sport, ordered beer with his
oyster stew and insisted that I should do the same. My acquaintance with
beer was limited and I never did like the stuff, but I drank it with
reckless abandon, following each sip with a mouthful of something else
to get rid of the taste. On the way to the "show" we met two young
women of Burns' acquaintance and stopped to converse with them. Charlie
offered his arm to one, the best looking; I offered mine to the discard,
and we proceeded to stroll two by two along the Tremont Street mall of
the Common. We had strolled for perhaps ten minutes, most of which
time I had spent trying to think of something to say, when Burns'
charmer--she was a waitress in one of Mr. Wyman's celebrated "sandwich
depots," I believe--turned and, looking back at my fair one and myself,
observed with some sarcasm: "What's the matter with your silent partner,
Mame? Got the lock-jaw, has he?"

I left them soon after that. There was no "variety show" for me that
night. Humiliated and disgusted with myself I returned to my room at the
boarding-house, realizing in bitterness of spirit that the gentlemanly
dissipations of a true sport were never to be mine.

As I grew older I kept more and more to myself. My work at the office
must have been a little better done, I fancy, for my salary was raised
twice in four years, but I detested the work and the office and all
connected with it. I read more and more at the public library and began
to spend the few dollars I could spare for luxuries on books. Among my
acquaintances at