Jeffard looked up quickly and saw what the myopia of hunger had hitherto obscured: that his companion's smooth-shaven face seemed gaunter than usual, and that his hands were unsteady when he lifted the knife and fork.
"Colorado isn't helping you, then," he said.
"No; but it isn't altogether Colorado's fault. The Boston medicine man said change of climate, plenty of outdoor indolence, nutritious food at stated intervals. I have all any one could ask of the first, and as little of either of the others as may be."
"But you do good work, Lansdale. I've always believed you could make it win, in time. Hasn't the time come yet?"
"No. What I can do easiest would bring bread and meat, if I could sell it; but a literary hack-writer has no business in Colorado—or anywhere else outside of the literary centres. In Boston I could always find an odd job of reviewing, or space-writing, or something that would serve to keep body and soul together; but here they won't have me even in the newspapers."
"Overcrowded, I suppose, like everything else in this cursed country."
"That's the alleged reason; but the fact is that I'm not a journalist. Your thoroughbred newspaper man has more or less contempt for a fellow who can't or won't write journalese."
They had attained to the dessert, and the waiter was opening a modest bottle of claret for them. Jeffard turned his wineglass down.