“But no matter how peculiarly constituted a man may be for blacksmithing,” she was laughing, “I never heard of one becoming a blacksmith without first serving his apprenticeship.”
“What would you advise?” he asked. “And don’t forget that I feel in me this capacity to write—I can’t explain it; I just know that it is in me.”
“You must get a thorough education,” was the answer, “whether or not you ultimately become a writer. This education is indispensable for whatever career you select, and it must not be slipshod or sketchy. You should go to high school.”
“Yes—” he began; but she interrupted with an afterthought:-
“Of course, you could go on with your writing, too.”
“I would have to,” he said grimly.
“Why?” She looked at him, prettily puzzled, for she did not quite like the persistence with which he clung to his notion.
“Because, without writing there wouldn’t be any high school. I must live and buy books and clothes, you know.”
“I’d forgotten that,” she laughed. “Why weren’t you born with an income?”
“I’d rather have good health and imagination,” he answered. “I can make good on the income, but the other things have to be made good for—” He almost said “you,” then amended his sentence to, “have to be made good for one.”