"
"No, George!" It was the proudest moment of her life.
How heroic and generous he was!
She filled his pocket-book the next day, when he went to
New York to take the world by the throat. It was really
not George Waldeaux's fault that she filled it.
Nor was it his fault that during the next two years the
world was in no hurry to run to his feet, either to learn
of him, or to bring him its bags of gold. The little man
did his best; he put his "message," as he called it, into
poems, into essays, into a novel. Publishers thanked him
effusively for the pleasure of reading them,
and--sent them back. The only word of his which reached
the public was a review of the work of a successful
author. It was so personal, so malignant, that George,
when he read it, writhed with shame and humiliation. He
tore the paper into fragments.
"Am I so envious and small as that! Before God, no words
of mine shall ever go into print again!" he said, and he
kept his word.
He came down every month or two to his mother.
"Why not try teaching, George?" she said anxiously.
"These great scholars and scientific men have places and
reputations which even you need not despise."
He laughed bitterly. "I tried for a place as tutor in a
third-class school, and could not pass the examinations.
I know nothing accurately. Nothing."
It occurred to him to go into politics and help reform
the world by routing a certain Irish boss. He made a
speech at a ward meeting, and broke down in the middle of
it before the storm of gibes and hootings.
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