“Not as it should, Mr. Bruce, not as it should. But money is not everything. I hope to acquire fame, to live in the hearts of future generations,” and the young man’s pale cheeks flushed.
Ben doubted whether such stories as “The Ragpicker’s Curse” would be likely to win enduring fame for the author, but out of consideration for the feelings of Mr. Snodgrass he kept silent on this point.
“I hear that Howells makes a good deal of money by his novels,” he said.
“Howells!” repeated Mr. Snodgrass scornfully. “He couldn’t write a story for the Weekly Bugle. There isn’t excitement enough in his productions.”
“Still, I think I should like to be in his shoes.”
“Oh, no doubt there is some merit in his stories,” said Sylvanus Snodgrass condescendingly, “but I don’t admire them for my part. They lack snap and fire.”
“Probably he couldn’t write a story like ‘The Ragpicker’s Curse.’”
“I won’t express any opinion on that subject,” said Mr. Snodgrass modestly. “If you ever feel inclined to write a story, Mr. Bruce, I shall be glad to introduce you to our editor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Snodgrass, you are very kind.”
“Oh, don’t mention it, Mr. Bruce. I know what it is to struggle and I like to help young writers. By the way, have you had supper?”