Louie found a rooming-house, shoved his suitcase under the
bed, changed his collar, washed his hands in the gritty water of
the wash bowl, and started out to look for a job.
Louie was twenty-one. For the last four years he had been
employed in the best shoe store at home, and he knew shoe leather
from the factory to the ash barrel. It was almost a religion with
him.
Curiosity, which plays leads in so many life dramas, led Louie
to the rotunda of the tallest building. It was built on the hollow
center plan, with a sheer drop from the twenty-somethingth to the
main floor. Louie stationed himself in the center of the mosaic
floor, took off his hat, bent backward almost double and gazed, his
mouth wide open. When he brought his muscles slowly back into
normal position he tried hard not to look impressed. He glanced
about, sheepishly, to see if any one was laughing at him, and his
eye encountered the electric-lighted glass display case of the shoe
company upstairs. The case was filled with pink satin slippers and
cunning velvet boots, and the newest thing in bronze street shoes.
Louie took the next elevator up. The shoe display had made him
feel as though some one from home had slapped him on the back.
The God of the Jobless was with him. The boss had fired two
boys the day before.
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