“You are beginning young. How old are you?”
“I am almost sixteen.”
“That is young for an artist. Why, I am forty-five, and I haven’t a particle of talent in that direction. My youngest son asked me the other day to draw a cow on the slate. I did as well as I could, and what do you think he said?”
“What did he say?” asked Chester, interested.
“He said, ‘Papa, if it wasn’t for the horns I should think it was a horse.’”
Chester laughed. It was a joke he could appreciate.
“I suppose all cannot draw,” he said.
“It seems not. May I ask you if you live in New York—the city, I mean?”
“No, sir.”
“But you are going there?”