“Well, yes, but the prices are so low, and it costs a good deal to live in New York, even in the humble style which I keep up. I am owing Mrs. Robinson for two weeks’ rent, and I think she is getting uneasy.”
“How much does it amount to?”
“Six dollars.”
“Here is the money, Mr. Snodgrass. I am glad to be of service to an old friend.”
Sylvanus Snodgrass grasped Ben’s hand and the tears came into his eyes, for his heart was gentle, though he dealt in the most blood-curdling romances. In one of his stories there were no less than fifteen murders.
“You are a true friend, Ben,” he said. “I shall always remember your kindness.”
“Then let me give you something more to remember. Your suit looks rather shabby. If you will order a new one I will pay for it.”
“You overwhelm me, Ben. I own that I am sometimes ashamed to go along the street dressed in this unseemly garb. Those who learn who I am must be surprised that the well-known novelist, whose name is familiar in all parts of the United States, should go so poorly clad. Now I shall feel more independent and self-respecting.”
If misfortunes seldom come singly, it sometimes happens, also, with strokes of good fortune. The next day Mr. Snodgrass received an order for six dime novels from a publisher of that class of fiction, and it exhilarated him immensely.
“You see, Ben,” he said, “genius will triumph in the end. This is an offer that I never sought. It comes from a new publisher. The editor of the Bugle has thought he owned me, but his tyranny is over.”