He had lost some of the ardor with which he had started out but he was still full of hope.  He refused to accept Mr. Featherton’s point of view as general or final.  So he hailed a passing car that in the course of a half hour set him down at the door of the great factory which, with its improvements, its army of clerks and employees, had built up one whole section of the town.  He felt especially hopeful in attacking this citadel, because they were constantly advertising for clerks and their placards plainly stated that preference would be given to graduates of the local high school.  The owners were philanthropists in their way.  Well, what better chance could there be before him?  He had graduated there and stood well in his classes, and besides, he knew that a number of his classmates were holding good positions in the factory.  So his voice was cheerful as he asked to see Mr. Stockard, who had charge of the clerical department.

Mr. Stockard was a fat, wheezy young man, with a reputation for humor based entirely upon his size and his rubicund face, for he had really never said anything humorous in his life.  He came panting into the room now with a “Well, what can I do for you?”

“I wanted to see you about a situation”—­began Halliday.

“Oh, no, no, you don’t want to see me,” broke in Stockard, “you want to see the head janitor.”

“But I don’t want to see the head janitor.  I want to see the head of the clerical department.”

“You want to see the head of the clerical department!”

“Yes, sir, I see you are advertising for clerks with preference given to the high school boys.  Well, I am an old high school boy, but have been away for a few years at college.”

Mr. Stockard opened his eyes to their widest extent, and his jaw dropped.  Evidently he had never come across such presumption before.

“We have nothing for you,” he wheezed after awhile.

“Very well, I should be glad to drop in again and see you,” said Halliday, moving to the door.  “I hope you will remember me if anything opens.”

Mr. Stockard did not reply to this or to Bert’s good-bye.  He stood in the middle of the floor and stared at the door through which the colored man had gone, then he dropped into a chair with a gasp.

“Well, I’m dumbed!” he said.

A doubt had begun to arise in Bertram Halliday’s mind that turned him cold and then hot with a burning indignation.  He could try nothing more that morning.  It had brought him nothing but rebuffs.  He hastened home and threw himself down on the sofa to try and think out his situation.

“Do they still require of us bricks without straw?  I thought all that was over.  Well, I suspect that I will have to ask Mr. Featherton to speak to his head-waiter in my behalf.  I wonder if the head-waiter will demand my diploma.  Webb Davis, you were nearer right than I thought.”

He spent the day in the house thinking and planning.