YOUNG AMERICA.
When Pierson, laggard as usual, returned to Battle Field a week after the end of the long vacation, he found Scarborough just establishing himself.He had taken two small and severely plain rooms in a quaint old frame cottage, one story high, but perched importantly upon a bank at the intersection of two much-traveled streets.
"What luck?" asked Pierson, lounging in on him.
"A hundred days' campaign; a thousand dollars net," replied the book agent."And I'm hard as oak from tramping those roads, and I've learned--you ought to have been along, Pierson.I know people as I never could have come to know them by any other means--what they think, what they want, how they can be reached."There was still much of the boy in Pierson's face.But Scarborough looked the man, developed, ready.
Pierson wandered into the bedroom to complete his survey."Isee you're going to live by the clock," he called out presently.
He had found, pasted to the wall, Scarborough's schedule of the daily division of his time; just above it, upon a shelf, was a new alarm clock, the bell so big that it overhung like a canopy.
"You don't mean you're going to get up at four?""Every morning--all winter," replied Scarborough, without stopping his unpacking."You see, I'm going to finish this year--take the two years in one.Then I've registered in a law office--Judge Holcombe's.And there's my speaking--I must practise that every day."Pierson came back to the sitting-room and collapsed into a chair.
"I see you allow yourself five hours for sleep," he said.
"It's too much, old man.You're self-indulgent.""That's a mistake," replied Scarborough."Since making out the schedule I've decided to cut sleep down to four hours and a half.""That's more like it!"
"We all sleep too much," he continued."And as I shan't smoke, or drink, or worry, I'll need even less than the average man.I'm going to do nothing but work.A man doesn't need much rest from mere work.""What! No play?"
"Play all the time.I've simply changed my playthings."Pierson seated himself at the table and stared gloomily at his friend.
"Look here, old man.For heaven's sake, don't let Olivia find out about this program."But Olivia did hear of it, and Pierson was compelled to leave his luxury in the main street and to take the two remaining available rooms at Scarborough's place.His bed was against the wall of Scarborough's bedroom--the wall where the alarm clock was.At four o'clock on his first morning he started from a profound sleep.
"My bed must be moved into my sitting-room to-day," he said to himself as soon as the clamor of Scarborough's gong died away and he could collect his thoughts.But at four o'clock the next morning the gong penetrated the two walls as if they had not been there."I see my finish," he groaned, sitting up and tearing at his hair.
He tried to sleep again, but the joint pressure of Olivia's memory-mirrored gray eyes and of disordered nerves from the racking gong forced him to make an effort to bestir himself.
Groaning and muttering, he rose and in the starlight looked from his window.Scarborough was going up the deserted street on his way to the woods for his morning exercise.His head was thrown back and his chest extended, and his long legs were covering four feet at a stride."You old devil!" said Pierson, his tone suggesting admiration and affection rather than anger."But I'll outwit you."By a subterfuge in which a sympathetic doctor was the main factor, he had himself permanently excused from chapel.Then he said to Scarborough: "You get up too late, old man.My grandfather used to say that only a drone lies abed after two in the morning, wasting the best part of the day.You ought to turn in, say, at half-past nine and rise in time to get your hardest work out of the way before the college day begins.""That sounds reasonable," replied Scarborough, after a moment's consideration."I'll try it."And so it came to pass that Pierson went to bed at the sound of Scarborough's two-o'clock rising gong and pieced out his sleep with an occasional nap in recitations and lectures and for an hour or two late in the afternoon.He was able once more to play poker as late as he liked, and often had time for reading before the gong sounded.And Scarborough was equally delighted with the new plan."I gain at least one hour a day, perhaps two," he said."Your grandfather was a wise man."Toward spring, Mills, western manager of the publishing house for which Scarborough had sold Peaks of Progress through Michigan, came to Battle Field to see him.
"You were far and away the best man we had out last year," said he."You're a born book agent.""Thank you," said Scarborough, sincerely.He appreciated that a man can pay no higher compliment than to say that another is master of his own trade.
"We got about fifty orders from people who thought it over after you'd tried to land them and failed--that shows the impression you made.And you sold as many books as our best agent in our best field.""I'll never go as agent again," said Scarborough."The experience was invaluable--but sufficient.""We don't want you to go as agent.Our proposition is for much easier and more dignified work."At the word dignified, Scarborough could not restrain a smile.
"I've practically made my plans for the summer," he said.
"I think we've got something worth your while, Mr.Scarborough.
