THE BARK OF THE WOLF
In the studios near Union Square, where two artists and a writer lived and toiled together, there was an atmosphere of heavy gloom. It was a bitter, dark day without, for one thing, raw and windy, while within there was little in the way of cheerfulness besides the open fire, which, for economy's sake, was not allowed to manifest any undue spirit of enterprise. Being the last day in the year—a year that had not been overkind to them—also added something to the feeling of pervading melancholy, and the fact that no one of the three had eaten since the previous evening was not conducive to joy.
They were not altogether without hope. They had tobacco, such as it was, and coal for the time being. Food was more or less of a luxury compared with these. They had scraped together their last fractional funds and invested them in necessaries. Then, too, there was to be more money; not much, of course,—there was not much money anywhere now,—but enough to satisfy for a time the gaunt wolf that was marching up and down in the hall outside, pausing now and then to grin up at the spot where the sign of the "Whole Family" had hung, and show his gleaming white teeth. It was Van Dorn who had pictured the situation in this manner, and added:
"I'm afraid to go out in the hall after dark, for fear he'll get me by the leg."
And Perner:
"I think we'd better invite him in. Maybe he's brought something."
Livingstone looked wearily in the fire.
"I wish the 'Decade' would send me that check they promised to-day," he muttered presently.
"And 'Dawn' the one they were to send me," said Van Dorn.
"And the 'Columbian' mine," echoed Perner. "If I thought I could get it now by going over there, I'd go."