Robert Chalmers therefore advertises for a situation as book-keeper.
This occupation will support him in his determination to neglect the
Chicago newspapers.

"Greatest man I ever saw to sit stretched out, his hands deep in his
pockets, his feet crossed, his head far down on his shirt bosom," says
the chambermaid at Gramercy Square. "He must be an inventor. He
thinks, and thinks, and thinks. Dear sakes, but he is homely."

An advertisement secures to Robert Chalmers a book-keeper's place in a
dry-goods agency on Walker street. The move is a wise one. The labor
occupies his time, improves his spirits and emancipates him from the
unpleasant conclusions that were forcing themselves on him. He is not
liked by the other clerks because he is not social, but he is able to
consider, once more, the humiliations which he escaped by avoiding a
contested election, and by a successful evasion of a wedding compact
which was a part of his foolish political ambition.

Several months pass away. If Chalmers is to be anything better than a
book-keeper at nine hours' work each day he must move, but he who so
willingly took the great step is now afraid to resign his
book-keepership. He dreads life away from his tall desk. This problem
is engaging his daily attention. This afternoon the clerks are arguing
about Chicago. He cannot avoid hearing. He is the only party not
engaged in the debate. They desire his arbitration. Does Clark street
run both north and south of the river in Chicago? Here, for instance,
is the route of a procession. Is it not clear that Clark street must
run north if the procession shall follow this route?

They lay a Chicago Sunday paper on his desk. The portrait of David