Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer Read Online Free PDF

lids came slowly down halfway. And she said, “Mind you don’t catch a fever, Martin,” and raised a forefinger that she waggled lightly. Then her eyelids closed decisively.
    Later that morning, when Martin returned to the bellboys’ bench from delivering a pitcher of ice water to another floor, he learned that Mr. Hamilton had just returned from Baltimore or Philadelphia and was riding up in the elevator at that very moment. The buzzer from Room 411 remained silent, a cause for ribald comment by the bellboys and Charley Stratemeyer, and later that day as Martin was delivering a tray of drinks to the fifth floor he suddenly sneezed and nearly upset a glass. By four in the afternoonhe felt heavy-headed; that night his temperature rose to 103. He struggled to lift his head from the pillow, and finally sank back into confused dreams. When he woke it was growing dark. He returned to work the next morning, despite burning eyelids and a heaviness in the temples; the Hamiltons had checked out the day before. Mr. Henning took him aside and said that Mrs. Hamilton had commended Martin to him—he wished to pass on the compliment. “A good job, my boy: you’ve done well. A difficult proposition, if I may say so. Well now: don’t let it go to your head.” “I won’t, sir.” Martin felt drowsy; he could feel his heavy eyelids closing, but forced them open.

A Business Venture
    A FEW WEEKS AFTER M ARTIN ’ S SIXTEENTH birthday, Mr. Henning summoned him into the small office located behind an oak door between two pilasters near the ladies’ parlor. Seated at a high-backed desk with envelopes sticking out of every pigeonhole, Mr. Henning motioned for Martin to sit down in a mahogany armchair upholstered in green morocco, opened a cedarwood box, and began to remove a fancy Havana. He paused to offer the box hesitantly to Martin, and seemed startled when Martin bent forward and removed one. “Strictly between us, of course,” he said. “Your father—” Martin, who had never smoked a cigar in his life, despite sampling hundreds of them in his father’s presence since the age of thirteen, but who didn’tlike to refuse a challenge, sat rolling the cigar under his nose and admiring the smoothness of the wrapper before he thrust it decisively into the pocket of his bellboy jacket. Mr. Henning quickly closed the box, clipped his cigar, rolled it on his tongue, removed it, and seemed to forget about it as he swiveled in his chair, thrust a thumb into the pocket of his vest, and began to speak.
    “I’m not going to beat about the bush, Martin: ’tain’t my style. Fact is, you’ve done a pretty good job here at the Vanderlyn. I suppose you know it. We’ve been keeping an eye on you, lad, watching you, you might say—well, we’ll speak no more about that. Pretty soon a fellow gets all full of himself and then his hat won’t fit on his head. Has to get himself a new hat, or maybe a new head, old one isn’t good enough for him any more. You catch my drift. Cochran—clerk—little guy, up to here on me, you may have run into him—Cochran’s been given notice, not up to the mark and so forth, no concern of yours. We’ll move Charley into the night slot where he won’t have to get up at five in the morning and you can take Charley’s spot ’longside of John. He’ll show you the ropes. You’ll catch on quick. Well, then. What do you say?”
    Martin, who had been distracted by the aroma of the cigar in his pocket, an aroma that reminded him of a familiar one he couldn’t quite place, realized suddenly that he had just been offered a promotion. He sat up straight, was about to accept, felt a sharp hesitation, and said he’d think it over. To his surprise, Mr. Henning grew angry.
    “Think it over, by God. Sure sir very good sir I’ll justthink it over a bit sir thank you sir will that be all sir. By God, boy, you don’t think over a thing like this. You seize it by the scruff of the neck and hold onto it and pray it