A RAILROAD ACQUAINTANCE.
The distance by rail from Wyncombe to New York is fifty miles. When
about eight years of age Chester had made the journey, but not since
then. Everything was new to him, and, of course, interesting. His
attention was drawn from the scenery by the passage of a train boy
through the cars with a bundle of new magazines and papers.
“Here is all the magazines, _Puck_ and _Judge_.”
“How much do you charge for _Puck_?” asked Chester, with interest, for
it was _Puck_ that had accepted his first sketch.
“Ten cents.”
“Give me one.”
Chester took the paper and handed the train boy a dime.
Then he began to look over the pages. All at once he gave a start, his
face flushed, his heart beat with excitement. There was his sketch
looking much more attractive on the fair pages of the periodical than
it had done in his pencil drawing. He kept looking at it. It seemed to
have a fascination for him. It was his first appearance in a paper, and
it was a proud moment for him.
“What are you looking at so intently, my son?” asked the gentleman who
sat at his side. He was a man of perhaps middle age, and he wore
spectacles, which gave him a literary aspect.
“I—I am looking at this sketch,” answered Chester, in slight
confusion.
“Let me see it.”
Chester handed over the paper and regarded his seat mate with some
anxiety. He wanted to see what impression this, his maiden effort,
would have on a staid man of middle age.
“Ha! very good!” said his companion, “but I don’t see anything very
remarkable about it. Yet you were looking at it for as much as five
minutes.”
“Because it is mine,” said Chester, half proudly, half in
embarrassment.
“Ah! that is different. Did you really design it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose you got pay for it. I understand _Puck_ pays for everything
it publishes.”
“Yes, sir; I got ten dollars.”
“Ten dollars!” repeated the gentleman, in surprise. “Really that is
very handsome. Do you often produce such sketches?”
“I have just begun, sir. That is the first I have had published.”
“You are beginning young. How old are you?”
“I am almost sixteen.”
“That is young for an artist. Why, I am forty-five, and I haven’t a
particle of talent in that direction. My youngest son asked me the
other day to draw a cow on the slate. I did as well as I could, and
what do you think he said?”
“What did he say?” asked Chester, interested.
“He said, ‘Papa, if it wasn’t for the horns I should think it was a
horse.’”
Chester laughed. It was a joke he could appreciate.
“I suppose all cannot draw,” he said.
“It seems not. May I ask you if you live in New York—the city, I
mean?”
“No, sir.”
“But you are going there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To live?”
“I hope so. A friend has written advising me to come. He says I will be
better placed to do art work, and dispose of my sketches.”
“Are you expecting to earn your living that way?”
“I hope to some time, but not at first.”
“I am glad to hear it. I should think you would find it very
precarious.”
“I expect to work in a real estate office at five dollars a week, and
only to spend my leisure hours in art work.”
“That seems sensible. Have you been living in the country?”
“Yes, sir, in Wyncombe.”
“I have heard of the place, but was never there. So you are just
beginning the battle of life?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It has just occurred to me that I may be able to throw some work in
your way. I am writing an ethnological work, and it will need to be
illustrated. I can’t afford to pay such prices as you receive from
_Puck_ and other periodicals of the same class, but then the work will
not be original. It will consist chiefly of copies. I should think I
might need a hundred illustrations, and I am afraid I could not pay
more than two dollars each.”
A hundred illustrations at two dollars each! Why, that would amount to
two hundred dollars, and there would be no racking his brains for
original ideas.
“If you think I can do the work, sir, I shall be glad to undertake it,”
said Chester, eagerly.
“I have no doubt you can do it, for it will not require an expert.
Suppose you call upon me some evening within a week.”
“I will do so gladly, sir, if you will tell me where you live.”
“Here is my card,” said his companion, drawing out his case, and
handing a card to Chester.
This was what Chester read:
“Prof. Edgar Hazlitt.”
“Do you know where Lexington Avenue is?” asked the professor.
“I know very little about New York. In fact, nothing at all,” Chester
was obliged to confess.
“You will soon find your way about. I have no doubt you will find me,”
and the professor mentioned the number. “Shall we say next Wednesday
evening, at eight o’clock sharp? That’s if you have no engagement for
that evening,” he added, with a smile.
Chester laughed at the idea of his having any evening engagements in a
city which he had not seen for eight years.
“If you are engaged to dine with William Vanderbilt or Jay Gould on
that evening,” continued the professor, with a merry look, “I will say
Thursday.”
“If I find I am engaged in either place, I think I can get off,” said
Chester.
“Then Wednesday evening let it be!”
As the train neared New York Chester began to be solicitous about
finding Mr. Conrad in waiting for him. He knew nothing about the city,
and would feel quite helpless should the artist not be present to meet
him. He left the car and walked slowly along the platform, looking
eagerly on all sides for the expected friendly face.
But nowhere could he see Herbert Conrad.
In some agitation he took from his pocket the card containing his
friend’s address, and he could hardly help inwardly reproaching him for
leaving an inexperienced boy in the lurch. He was already beginning to
feel homesick and forlorn, when a bright-looking lad of twelve, with
light-brown hair, came up and asked: “Is this Chester Rand?”
“Yes,” answered Chester, in surprise. “How do you know my name?”
“I was sent here by Mr. Conrad to meet you.”
Chester brightened up at once. So his friend had not forgotten him
after all.
“Mr. Conrad couldn’t come to meet you, as he had an important
engagement, so he sent me to bring you to his room. I am Rob Fisher.”
“I suppose that means Robert Fisher?”
“Yes, but everybody calls me Rob.”
“Are you a relation of Mr. Conrad?”
“Yes, I am his cousin. I live just outside of the city, but I am
visiting my cousin for the day. I suppose you don’t know much about New
York?”
“I know nothing at all.”
“I am pretty well posted, and I come into the city pretty often. Just
follow me. Shall I carry your valise?”
“Oh, no; I am older than you and better able to carry it. What street
is this?”
“Forty-second Street. We will go to Fifth Avenue, and then walk down to
Thirty-fourth Street.”
“That is where Mr. Conrad lives, isn’t it?”
“Yes; it is one of the wide streets, like Fourteenth and Twenty-third,
and this street.”
“There are some fine houses here.”
“I should think so. You live in Wyncombe, don’t you?”
“Yes; the houses are all of wood there.”
“I suppose so. Mr. Conrad tells me you are an artist,” said Rob, eying
his new friend with curiosity.
“In a small way.”
“I should like to see some of your pictures.”
“I can show you one,” and Chester opened his copy of _Puck_ and pointed
to the sketch already referred to.
“Did you really draw this yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And did you get any money for it?”
“Ten dollars,” answered Chester, with natural pride.
“My! I wish I could get money for drawing.”
“Perhaps you can some time.”
Bob shook his head.
“I haven’t any talent that way.”
“What house is that?” asked Chester, pointing to the marble mansion at
the corner of Thirty-fourth Street.
“That used to belong to A. T. Stewart, the great merchant. I suppose
you haven’t any houses like that in Wyncombe?”
“Oh, no.”
“We will turn down here. This is Thirty-fourth Street.”
They kept on, crossing Sixth and Seventh Avenues, and presently stood
in front of a neat, brownstone house between Seventh and Eighth
Avenues.
“That is where Mr. Conrad lives,” said Rob.