The folding-bed had an air of depression and baffled
hopes. For years it had been trying to look like a bookcase in the
daytime, and now it looked more like a folding-bed than ever. There
was also a plain deal table, much stained with ink. At this, night
after night, sometimes far into the morning, Rutherford Maxwell would
sit and write stories. Now and then it happened that one would be a
good story, and find a market.
Rutherford Maxwell was an Englishman, and the younger son of an
Englishman; and his lot was the lot of the younger sons all the world
over. He was by profession one of the numerous employees of the New
Asiatic Bank, which has its branches all over the world. It is a sound,
trustworthy institution, and steady-going relatives would assure
Rutherford that he was lucky to have got a berth in it. Rutherford did
not agree with them. However sound and trustworthy, it was not exactly
romantic. Nor did it err on the side of over-lavishness to those who
served it. Rutherford's salary was small. So were his prospects--if he
remained in the bank. At a very early date he had registered a vow that
he would not. And the road that led out of it for him was the uphill
road of literature.
He was thankful for small mercies. Fate had not been over-kind up to
the present, but at least she had dispatched him to New York, the
centre of things, where he would have the chance to try, instead of to
some spot off the map.
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