W. C. Fields : his follies and fortunes (1949)

which affected him profoundly. When he reached the ticket window, he asked the fare to New York, and the agent, an elderly, gray-haired man wearing steel spectacles, quoted it at ten dollars and a few cents. "Well, I guess I'm stuck," said Fields (as he repeated the conversation in later years. "I've got eight dollars." "Aren't you one of that play-acting bunch?" asked the agent. Fields replied that he was, then awaited the familiar sneer. "People don't put much trust in you folks, do they?" said the agent. "We're used to it," Fields told him. The agent closed the window and came around into the waiting room, where he took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket. "Son," he said, handing the bill to Fields, "I've always wondered what there was to that story. When you get a little ahead, send this back." It was one of the few acts of gratuitous kindness Fields could remember in the fifteen years of his life, and it pierced his casehardened shell. He sat down on a bench and cried. Despite his most persevering efforts, it was two years before he could repay the debt. On Christmas Eve, 1896, when he had just received an advance of twenty dollars from Fred Irwin, the manager of a reputable road show, he mailed two ten-dollar bills to Kent. In an accompanying, grateful note, he explained that one was for interest. Then he went to a free soup kitchen on New York's west side and stood in line for a Christmas dinner. 49