One morning I climbed the old grubby stair of the Art School to find everything in excitement and confusion. Clumps of students congested the Oriental Rug Room, groups of students were in the hall, the office was full. The old Curator was tugging at his beard harder than ever, shaking his head, nodding answers or ignoring questions as excitement permitted. Supposing it to be some American anniversary, I strode through the hubbub into the…
Exit Mrs. Piddington, and vice and terror faded from my consciousness. Free, unfearful I roamed San Francisco interested in everything, most particularly interested in my art studies. Suddenly I was brought face to face with Piddington horrors again. I was taking guitar lessons from an old German professor. The frets on my guitar needed resetting, the professor said. “Take to de’ musics-man he sharge you big moneys. My fren’ dat make fiddle he do…
The woman who was supposed to have assumed Mrs. Piddington’s custody of me bodily and morally ignored everything connected with me except the board money I paid. I was her income. I had to be made to stretch over herself, her two children and myself. The capacity of my check was so severely taxed by all our wants that towards the end of the month it wore gossamer and ceased altogether. Then we lived…