“Now let’s have the story from the word Go.”
So Wynne wound himself up and reeled off all his experiences in the unfriendly city. Once or twice during the recital Uncle Clem frowned, and once or twice looked at his nephew in some perplexity, but in the main he nodded encouragement or gave little ejaculations of praise.
“Plucky enough,” he remarked at the close.
“I wonder sometimes. Is it plucky merely to fight for existence?”
“Did you merely fight for existence—was there no impulse behind it all?”
“Yes, the impulse to do and to know has helped me over the stonier parts.”
“The painting was not a success, eh?”
“It isn’t my medium.”
“Have you found out what is?”
The question was hard to answer. It would sound futile to reply, “Writing,” when one had but a few occasional jottings on the back of envelopes to substantiate the claim.