“Have you written many plays, Mr. Wilkins?” asked Ben.
“No. This is only the third. I do some literary work for papers and magazines, but plays, if successful, pay much better. You see I have a few books here. You may like to look them over.”
There were book shelves near the writing desk, containing a miscellaneous assortment of books, perhaps three hundred in number.
“You like reading, Ben?”
“Yes, sir, very much.”
“You are welcome to borrow books from my library, such as it is.”
“Thank you; I should like to do so. I ought to tell you,” he added smiling, “that I have the privilege of living in the same house with an author.”
“Indeed! Who is it?”
“Sylvanus Snodgrass.”
“I don’t think I know him.”