“It looks all right, doesn’t it?”
“I wish it were mine. I have a story at the Bugle office, but I have not as yet received any payment on it. I won’t tell you how little I have in my pocketbook, but I can hardly afford to provide myself with a lunch, and unluckily I am very hungry.”
“So am I, Mr. Snodgrass, and I can hardly wait till I reach the hotel. I will invite you in with me to lunch at the Sinclair House.”
They had by this time reached the corner of Eighth Street, the location of a hotel well known to fastidious eaters.
Ben ate only moderately, but Mr. Snodgrass, who had not for a long time patronized a restaurant of so high a grade, made an ample meal.
“That does me good,” he said with a sigh of satisfaction as they passed into the street. “I wish I could dine here every day.”
“When your genius is recognized like that of Mr. Howells,” suggested Ben, “you may be able to do so.”
“It is strange, the infatuation about Howells,” said Sylvanus. “I am sure my stories are quite as interesting as his.”
“No doubt they suit the readers of the Bugle better.”
“You are right, and yet he gets his thousands of dollars for a novel, while I—but——”