"Lord, no," said Swazey, smiling. "Why, boy, I've got a business that's bringing me in between four and five thousand a year—running itself, too."
Stover sat up.
"What!"
"I've got an advertising agency, specialties of all sorts, seven men working under one. I keep in touch every day. Course I could make more if I was right there. But I know what I'm going to do in this world. I've got my ideas for what's coming—big ideas. I'm going to make money hand over fist. That's easy. Now I'm getting an education. Here's the answer to it all."
He drew out of his pocketbook a photograph and passed it over to Stover.
"That's the best in the world; that's the girl that started me and that's the girl I'm going to marry."
Dink took the funny little photograph and gazed at it with a certain reverence. It was the face of a girl pretty enough, with a straight, proud, reliant look in her eyes that he saw despite the oddity of the clothes and the artificiality of the pose. He handed back the photograph.
"I like her," he said.
"Here we are," said Swazey, handing him a tintype.
It was grotesque, as all such pictures are, with its mingled sentimentality and self-consciousness, but Stover did not smile.