"A young fellow by the name of Witla, who has just blown in here. He looks like the real thing to me."
"Say," went on the Editor, "look at the suggestion of faces back there! What? Reminds me just a little of the masses in Doré stuff—It's good, isn't it?"
"It's fine," echoed the Art Director. "I think he's a comer, if nothing happens to him. We ought to get a few centre pages out of him."
"How much does he want for this?"
"Oh, he doesn't know. He'll take almost anything. I'll give him seventy-five dollars."
"That's all right," said the Editor as the Art Director took the drawing down. "There's something new there. You ought to hang on to him."
"I will," replied his associate. "He's young yet. He doesn't want to be encouraged too much."
He went out, pulling a solemn countenance.
"I like this fairly well," he said. "We may be able to find room for it. I'll send you a check shortly if you'll let me have your address."
Eugene gave it. His heart was beating a gay tattoo in his chest. He did not think anything of price, in fact it did not occur to him. All that was in his mind was the picture as a double page spread. So he had really sold one after all and to Truth! Now he could honestly say he had made some progress. Now he could write Angela and tell her. He could send her copies when it came out. He could really have something to point to after this and best of all, now he knew he could do street scenes.