“He seems to have tried all sorts of trades,” continued Chub, nothing daunted. “He says he’s been a dentist, a clown in a circus, a sleight-of-hand performer, a ventriloquist, a—a—”
“Book agent,” prompted Dick.
“Engineer,” supplied Roy.
“Yes,” Chub went on, “and a poet.”
“Indeed,” laughed the artist, “I’d never heard of that. How did you find that out?”
So Chub told him about the missing bread and butter and the verses substituted, about the fish and the poem written on birch bark, and so worked around to Billy’s experience with the Great Indian Chief Medicine Company.
“Well, he’s tried his hand at lots of things,” said Mr. Cole, “and strangely enough he does everything well. I haven’t any doubt but that if I could persuade Noon to take the Roger to sell for me he’d find a buyer inside of a week.”
“Couldn’t you?” asked Dick. The artist shook his head.
“I’m afraid not,” he answered. “He’s a pretty busy person.”
“But I should think it would pay him better than selling books,” Chub insisted. Mr. Cole smiled mysteriously.