He looked up irritably at the sound of a step on the weedy driveway, then his eyes snapped with delight.
"Hullo—hullo! what's this?"
"I had to come back, grandfather," Sam said.
"Well! Well!" said Benjamin Wright, his whole face wrinkling with pleasure. "'Had to come back?' Money gave out, I suppose? Sit down, sit down! Hi, Simmons! Damn that nigger. Simmons, here's Master Sam. What have you got for supper? Well, young man, did you get some sense knocked into you?" He was trembling with eagerness. Marlowe, in worm-eaten calf, dropped from his hand to the porch floor. Sam picked the book up, and sat down.
"If you wanted some more money, why the devil didn't you say so?"
"I had money enough, sir."
"Well—what about the drama?" his grandfather demanded.
"He said it was no good."
"Who said it was no good?" Mr. Wright pulled off his hat, fiercely, and began to chew orange-skin. Sam, vaguely turning over the leaves of the book upon his knee, mentioned the name of a publisher. "Fool!" said Benjamin Wright; "what does he know? Well; I hope you didn't waste time over him. Then who did you send it to?"
"Nobody."