He made application at various places for employment, but generally found some one ahead of him. He was, however, offered one place at two dollars and a half a week, and another at three dollars, but neither of these sums would pay his expenses, and if he accepted he would be prevented from securing a more remunerative post.
After paying in advance the third week’s rent for his room, Ben found that he had but a dollar and thirty-seven cents left.
“Haven’t you found a place yet?” asked the landlady.
“Not yet,” answered Ben soberly, “but I hope to obtain one this week.”
“I hope you will, I’m sure, for I am a poor widow, and though I should hate to send you away I must look out for my own interest.”
“I can’t blame you for that, Mrs. Robinson.”
“There’s Mr. Snodgrass don’t pay me regular. He’s owing me for two weeks, and it’s inconvenient. Still he has work, and I’ll be paid some time. Couldn’t he get you something to do where he works?”
“I am afraid I couldn’t write stories,” said Ben, smiling.
“Is that what he does? I thought it was copying.”
Sylvanus Snodgrass would have felt deeply hurt had he supposed that any one took him—a famous author—for a copyist.