Mr. Keeler smiled, showing his white teeth which contrasted so strongly with the deep tan on his complexion.
“Oh, that all comes when you have your scheme arranged,” he said. “But of course you have to possess a natural taste for the work. You can’t suddenly decide that you would like to be an author and then study for it as you might learn to be a carpenter or a mason.”
“Oh, it’s like poets, then, who are ‘born, not made,’” returned Roy.
“Precisely, and that being the case it comes natural to write, although there is a great deal of hard work about it.”
“You said you studied boys. How do you mean?”
“Well, take yourself for example. When I saw you sitting here fishing I wanted your picture so I could look at it some day and perhaps make up a story about you.”
“A story about me!” exclaimed Roy. Then he added in a sober tone, “I don’t believe you could make up a more wonderful story than something that has really happened to me.”
“Is that so? I remember now you said you were very much disturbed over something that you thought would make you look disagreeable.”
“Yes, I came down here because I was at odds with myself and everybody else, I wonder what you’d do with a hero who was just in my position. I’ve half a mind to tell you all about it. You don’t know who I am, so it won’t matter. Do you live in Philadelphia?”
“No, in New York just at present.”