CHAPTER VIII
THE STRUGGLING ARTIST.
"Here's all the illustrated papers!"
Of course the speaker was Paul, and again we go back, this time four weeks.
It was the same afternoon train from Milwaukee, and there were but twenty miles to travel before reaching Chicago.
The conductor chanced to be making his rounds at the same time. He was calling for the tickets in order to punch them. Among the rest he came to a young man, slender and graceful, and with one of those faces that seem to win upon a stranger at first sight—a thoroughly good face, with an expression of refinement and intellectual power. He appeared, however, to be in limited circumstances, for his coat was well worn, and in places there was a suspicious shiningness indicating a respectable antiquity.
"Ticket!" said the conductor, addressing himself to the young man.
The young man felt in his coat-pocket for his ticket, but it was gone—at least, he could not find it.
An expression of alarm overspread his face.
"I can't find my ticket," he murmured, in perplexity.