“I suppose that’s what I must call myself even if I’m not a particularly famous one.”
“Please tell me the names of some of your books. Perhaps I’ve read them.”
The young man smiled at his companion’s eagerness and mentioned a story which had been Roy’s Christmas present two years before.
“Did you write that?” he exclaimed. “Why, then you are Mr. Charles Keeler!”
“Yes, I am Mr. Keeler. I suppose you are disappointed in me. Most people are when they see the people who write books they have read.”
“That was a splendid story,” Roy drew in a long breath before he made this reply. He was still looking at Mr. Keeler as if he could not yet quite comprehend the thing. “I’m awfully glad to meet you and I’d like to shake hands.”
“With the greatest of pleasure. I’m very glad you liked my book; I know you wouldn’t say so if you didn’t. That’s where boys are superior to grown people. They are almost always sincere in the expression of their opinions.”
“Do you know I’ve never seen an author before?” went on Roy, who had wound up his line and had given himself over to a full enjoyment of this unexpected opportunity. “I don’t see how you do it. I hate to write compositions at school. Nearly every boy I know does. Did you?”
“Yes, when I had to write on subjects that were assigned by the teacher I used to count the lines then just the same as the rest of the fellows. But when they let me write a story I didn’t mind.”
“I don’t see how you can. I should think you’d never know what to say next.”