“Of course, but when were you old enough to go to work?”
“I used to work at Macy’s, but I felt it was drudgery. It was poor business for a man of intellect and imagination. I wrote a few short stories for the weeklies, and one day, having a little difference with my employer, I resigned, and boldly threw myself upon literature as an avocation.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Almost a year since.”
“And have you got along pretty well?”
“I have had to live a life of self-denial, but I am working for the future. Some day I mean to make the name of Sylvanus Snodgrass renowned. What will my old friends at Macy’s say then?”
“They will congratulate you, I should think.”
Mr. Snodgrass shook his head.
“No, they will be jealous of my fame,” he said. “Some of them even now turn up their noses at me. They have no soul above the goods they sell. They do not realize that my stories are read all over the United States. An old schoolmate of mine in San Francisco wrote me last week that he read everything I wrote.”
“That must be very gratifying,” remarked Ben.