By the time the packages were made up, dinner was ready. It was not a very luxurious repast. There was a small piece of rump steak—not more than three-quarters of a pound—a few potatoes, a loaf of bread, and a small plate of butter. That was all; but then the cloth that covered the table was neat and clean, and the knives and forks were as bright as new, and what there was tasted good.
“What have you been doing this morning, Jimmy?” asked Paul.
“I have been drawing, Paul. Here's a picture of Friday. I copied it from 'Robinson Crusoe.'”
He showed the picture, which was wonderfully like that in the book, for this—the gift of drawing—was Jimmy's one talent, and he possessed it in no common degree.
“Excellent, Jimmy!” said Paul. “You're a real genius. I shouldn't be surprised if you'd make an artist some day.”
“I wish I might,” said Jimmy, earnestly. “There's nothing I'd like better.”
“I'll tell you what, Jimmy. If I do well this afternoon, I'll buy you a drawing-book and some paper, to work on while mother and I are busy.”
“If you can afford it, Paul, I should like it so much. Some time I might earn something that way.”
“Of course you may,” said Paul, cheerfully. “I won't forget you.”
Dinner over, Paul went out to business, and was again successful, getting rid of his thirty packages, and clearing another dollar. Half of this he invested in a drawing-book, a pencil and some drawing-paper for Jimmy. Even then he had left of his earnings for the day one dollar and eighty cents. But this success in the new business had already excited envy and competition, as he was destined to find out on the morrow.