The address was "Henry Jennings Kittredge, Esq."
When Kittredge came back for his coat, Howard said in a tone of frank
admiration: "Why, I didn't know you were the Kittredge that everybody is
talking about. You certainly have no cause for complaint."
Kittredge shrugged his shoulders. "At fifteen cents a copy, I have to sell
ten thousand copies before I get enough to live on for four months. And
you'd be surprised how much reputation and how little money a man can make
out of a book. Don't be distressed because they keep you here with nothing
to do but wonder how you'll have the courage to face the cashier on pay
day. It's the system. Your chance will come."
It was three days before Howard had a chance. On a Sunday afternoon the
Assistant City Editor who was in charge of the City Desk for the day sent
him up to the Park to write a descriptive story of the crowds. "Try to get
a new point of view," he said, "and let yourself loose. There's usually
plenty of room in Monday's paper."
Howard wandered through the Central Park for two hours, struggling for the
"new point of view" of the crowds he saw there--these monotonous millions,
he thought, lazily drinking at a vast trough of country air in the heart of
the city. He planned an article carefully as he dined alone at the Casino.
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