“Well no, not exactly. He couldn’t live on it, you know. He works in a down-town barber shop, but he has his evenings to himself.”
“I should think that would be disagreeable business for a poet,” said Ben in surprise.
“It is not wholly congenial, but he tells me that when he is shaving or cutting hair the most beautiful poetic fancies come to him at times. Then when Saturday night arrives and he pockets his salary, he feels repaid. It is hard for a poet or a romancer when he cannot pay his board.”
“I should think so,” returned Ben.
Just as they parted for the night Mr. Snodgrass observed casually, “I am going to ask a little favor of you, Mr. Bruce.”
“What is it?” asked Ben cautiously.
“I am owing Mrs. Robinson for a week’s room rent. It should have been paid yesterday. If you could kindly lend me two dollars till to-morrow afternoon I will go in and pay her to-night.”
“It is quite out of the question, Mr. Snodgrass,” said Ben decidedly. “I have but a little money, and don’t know when I shall get a place.”
“It is immaterial!” returned Snodgrass. “I thought it possible you could oblige me. Good night!”
“Good night!”