"How?"
"I haven't decided yet, but you can bet your sweet life that if I ever try and make up my mind that it's got to be, it's got to be."
Brockton looked skeptical.
"Never have made it, have you?" he said.
"I have never tried," replied Madison doggedly.
"Then how do you know you can?"
"I'm honest and energetic, that's how I know!" retorted the journalist. With a sneer he added: "If you can get great wealth the way you go along, I don't see why I can't earn a little."
Puffing vigorously at his expensive perfecto, Brockton strode leisurely up and down the terrace. He spoke calmly and dispassionately, as if he personally were not in the least concerned with the subject under discussion. From his manner one might take him for an elderly brother advising a junior of life's many pitfalls.
"That's where you make a mistake," he said coolly. "Money doesn't always come with brilliancy. I know a lot of fellows in New York who can paint a fine picture, write a good play, and when it comes to oratory they've got me lashed to a pole. But, somehow, they never make money. They're always in debt. They never get anything for what they do. In other words, young man, they are like a sky rocket without a stick—plenty of brilliancy, but no direction. They blow up and fizzle all over the ground."
"That's in New York," interrupted Madison scornfully. "I'm in Colorado. I guess you know there is a difference."