Wayne, touched by the old fellow’s generosity, asked a day or two to think it over.
From Paddock, who called on him at the Craighill offices, Wayne learned that Joe had recovered and had found employment with a sporting goods house; but he asked no questions and Jean’s name was not spoken.
It was finally agreed that on the first of May Wayne should assume an active part in the management of the mercantile company; but Wayne’s life was not so easily to be brought to tranquil waters, as we shall see.
CHAPTER XXXI
WAYNE SEES JEAN AGAIN
RICHARDSON, the distinguished editor of that admirable magazine, the Hemisphere, was a guest of the Allequippa Club, and Wingfield exercised the right of an old friend to demand the reason for his descent upon Pittsburg. The editor led the way to his room and produced a portfolio of pen and ink and water-colour sketches of children. These he disposed about his room and invited Wingfield’s admiration. There was undoubtedly genius in the things; the key of pathos and humour was struck with a true, firm touch. Most interesting of all, there were babies—a group of them—types of half a dozen races.
“We cried over that bunch at the office. We don’t find the real thing every day and when it comes it’s always out of the dark. It’s a woman and she lives here. I suppose you never by any chance heard of her.”
Wingfield had already taken off his glasses to read the name scrawled at the bottom of one of the drawings—a newsboy with an infectious grin on his face.
“Jean Morley,” Wingfield read aloud. “Oh, certainly I know her. It’s really most remarkable that you should have recognized her talent. I suppose you have come here to offer her a dollar apiece for her sketches—I advise you not to lay yourself open to the humiliation of her scornful rejection of your offer. The girl is wonderful—wonderful! Anything less than a thousand dollars for what you have here would be preposterous; I would give her more myself and hold the drawings as an investment. And I happen to know that This Busy World has already offered to make a contract with her covering a term of years,” he added carelessly, readjusting his glasses.
Wingfield would not have lied to a stranger, but he had known Richardson all his life; and besides, Jean was a pretty girl and Dick Wingfield’s soul was not brass. The situation was much to his liking. Richardson was a man of distinction, a poet and essayist of high attainments, and as such Wingfield would take good care of him for the honour of Pittsburg. He was already wondering whether his mother would undertake a dinner in Richardson’s honour, with two or three girls he knew, and with Jean present—the surprise of the occasion. It was not an opportunity to miss. He had planned the dinner before Richardson had ceased praising the drawings.
“I would appreciate it if you would help me find the girl. I’m in a hurry; we want her to illustrate a series of articles we’ve got in type—‘The Child as a Wage-earner.’ These drawings strayed into the office just as we were discussing illustrators and she’s first choice. The matter is urgent. I must find out if she will undertake it and get out of here to-morrow.”