“I shall make my way,” averred the lad stoutly, “and even if I don’t succeed at the law, I always have my literary work to fall back on.”
“Your what?”
“My literary work. I was Yale correspondent for the Star all the time I was at college. And more of my stories are being accepted all the time by papers and magazines. And,” seeking mightily to subdue the thrill of sublime pride in his voice and to speak in a matter-of-fact tone, as he played his trump card, “Last month I had a seven-page story in Scribner’s.”
“Where?” asked Caleb, genuinely curious.
“In Scribner’s” repeated Hawarden modestly.
“Where’s that?” inquired Caleb.
“It’s,—why Scribner’s Magazine,” explained the boy, in dire misery. “I got eighty dollars for it,” he added with a pitiful clutch at his vanishing self-respect.
Caleb’s eye brightened. He looked at Hawarden with a new interest.
“Eighty dollars?” he repeated. “How long’d it take you to write it out?”
“About three days, I think,” answered the boy, puzzled at the question.