“But they wouldn’t talk, ’course. It must be awful hard to make up them stories in the magazines.”
“Oh, if a man gets an idea, he can work it up into a story. It takes work, of course, and time.”
“I don’t see how anybody can do it.” Carline shook his head. “There’s a man up to Gage. He wants to write a book, but he ain’t never been able to find anything to write about. You see, Gage ain’t much but a little landing, you might say.”
“Chester, and the big penitentiary is just below there, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes!”
“I’d think there might be at least one story for him to write there.”
“Oh, he don’t want to write about crooks; he wants to write about nice people, society people, and that kind, and big cities. He says it’s awful hard to find anybody to write about.”
“You’ve got to look to find heroes,” Terabon admitted. “I came more than a thousand miles to see a shanty-boat.”
“You di-i-d? Just to see a shanty-boat!” Carline stared at Terabon in amazement.