“I was paid five dollars for that.”
“Do tell!” exclaimed Mrs. Crosby, who was brought up in a country town and still used some of the expressions which were familiar to her in early days. “I can’t hardly believe it. It seems foolish to pay so much for such a little thing.”
“I don’t think it foolish, Mrs. Crosby. It must pay them, or they wouldn’t keep on doing it.”
Chester moved into his new room and enjoyed his ample accommodations very much. The next day he went to the office of The Phœnix and carried in two sketches. They were fortunate enough to win the approval of the editor.
“I see you are practical and understand what we want, Mr. Rand,” he said. Just behind Chester was a man of fifty, rather shabby and neglectful in his personal appearance. He might be described as an artist going to seed. Whatever talent he might have had originally had been dulled and obscured by chronic intemperance.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, deferentially, “but I would like to submit a couple of sketches. I am Guy Radcliff.”
“Glad to see you, Mr. Radcliff. Let me examine them.”
“I am afraid,” said the editor, after a brief examination, “that these are not quite what we want.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Mr. Radcliff, indignantly. “You scorn my work, yet accept the sketches of that boy!” pointing at Chester with withering contempt.
“Because he has given me what I want.”