Slowly Pendleton’s expression changed. What had been sympathy turned to critical interest, to surprise, to analytical study of the thin little paper. After a long pause he lifted his head. “Johnny,” he said, “I’m not an expert, but I know something about it, and I believe you’re right. I think you’ve got a big thing.”
“Think!” repeated Ellsworth indignantly. “Think!—I know it. There’s no earthly question that it’s a big thing.” With that he groaned. “Will it ever do me any good?”
“What do you mean?”
Ellsworth hesitated. “I can tell you, Jimmy.” He had it in mind that this was a poor man too. He would not seem to be asking for help.
“Go on,” said Pendleton.
“The point is—the point is that I haven’t money to make my model.”
Pendleton stared at him as he talked swiftly, explaining the need of money, two thousand dollars perhaps. Pendleton, silent, stared. With that the voices down the hall were shouting a name.
“Ellsworth! Johnny Ellsworth,” they were calling. “Come down and sing; oh, Johnny Ellsworth.”
Pendleton’s chubby face lost the masterful lines. He chuckled. “We’ll have to go,” he said. “I’ll take this,” and he folded the drawing and put it in his pocket, and caught Ellsworth’s arm and drew him down the hall and into the big room where the greater part of the Thirties were gathered.
“It isn’t time for lunch,” the ambassador explained. “And Molly Allen has been talking medicine till we’re sick, and we want you to make music, Johnny Ellsworth. Get up there and sing till you bust, please.”