"Of course a fellow has to make a living first."
(But, in my heart, I thought—it is just as vile for a man to send his wife out as a street-walker, and allege the excuse about having to live, as it is for a poet to prostitute his Muse.)
Nevertheless, Mackworth, Uncle Bill and I stood together, in the sunny street outside, posing for the photographer. And I swelled with inordinate pride. Though I knew I was bigger than both of them put together, yet, in the eyes of the world, these men were big men—and having my photograph taken with them was an indication to me, that I was beginning to come into my own.
Perhaps our picture would be reproduced in some Eastern paper or magazine ... perhaps even in the Bookman.
"Uncle Bill Struthers is an example of what Kansas can do for a man...." said Mackworth, when we were alone. "Bill, in the old days, was a sort of tramp printer ... clever, but with all his ability in him unexpressed ... he was always down and out ... and drink! It verged on dipsomania. He never held a job long ... though he was a good compositor, he was always on the move from place to place....
"Then he came to Kansas where we have prohibition ... and it has panned out in Uncle Bill's case pretty fine.
"He came to work for me ... fell by chance into his prose-poetry vein. It took; was instantly copied in all the newspapers ... of course, I could do it as well, or anyone else with a rhyming turn ... but he was the originator ... and people liked his sturdy common sense, his wholesome optimism.
"Now Bill is happy; his stuff's syndicated—in thousands of households wherever English is spoken his name is a familiar word. He gives whole communities strength to go on with the common duties of life."