It is undoubtedly embarrassing.

He is thinking too much of Chicago.  He must begin this second life on a new principle.  He must forget David Lockwin.  It grows apparent to the man that his brain will not bear the load which now rests upon it.  He must rather dwell upon the miseries that he has escaped He must canvass the good fortune of a single and irresponsible citizen, Robert Chalmers, who has no less than $74,500 in bank.  He must put his mind on business.

No!

One reason for quitting the old life was the desire to pass a studious life.

Well, then, he must wait patiently for that period when his mind will be quiet.  A certain thought at last reanimates him.

Would it not be well to act as a clerk until the weariness of servitude should make freedom pleasing?  This is both philosophical and thrifty.

Robert Chalmers therefore advertises for a situation as book-keeper.  This occupation will support him in his determination to neglect the Chicago newspapers.

“Greatest man I ever saw to sit stretched out, his hands deep in his pockets, his feet crossed, his head far down on his shirt bosom,” says the chambermaid at Gramercy Square.  “He must be an inventor.  He thinks, and thinks, and thinks.  Dear sakes, but he is homely.”

An advertisement secures to Robert Chalmers a book-keeper’s place in a dry-goods agency on Walker street.  The move is a wise one.  The labor occupies his time, improves his spirits and emancipates him from the unpleasant conclusions that were forcing themselves on him.  He is not liked by the other clerks because he is not social, but he is able to consider, once more, the humiliations which he escaped by avoiding a contested election, and by a successful evasion of a wedding compact which was a part of his foolish political ambition.

Several months pass away.  If Chalmers is to be anything better than a book-keeper at nine hours’ work each day he must move, but he who so willingly took the great step is now afraid to resign his book-keepership.  He dreads life away from his tall desk.  This problem is engaging his daily attention.  This afternoon the clerks are arguing about Chicago.  He cannot avoid hearing.  He is the only party not engaged in the debate.  They desire his arbitration.  Does Clark street run both north and south of the river in Chicago?  Here, for instance, is the route of a procession.  Is it not clear that Clark street must run north if the procession shall follow this route?

They lay a Chicago Sunday paper on his desk.  The portrait of David Lockwin confronts Robert Chalmers.  There is a page of matter concerning the dedication of a monument on the following Saturday.

The arbiter stammers so wretchedly that the losing side withdraw their offer of arbitration.

“Chalmers doesn’t know,” they declare, and take away the paper while Chalmers strives to read to the last syllable.