CHESTER MEETS ANOTHER ARTIST.
“Where do you wish me to work?” asked Chester, after a pause.
“You can work at home, but you can call at the office every day to
leave your work and receive instructions.”
“All right, sir. When do you wish me to commence?”
“At once. Have you any work ready? I asked because we want to get out
the first number as soon as possible.”
“I have one sketch and have several ideas jotted down.”
“Good! Deliver as much as possible to-morrow.”
Chester returned home in a high state of exultation. He would be paid
less for individual sketches, but, on the other hand, he would have a
steady income and an assured market for all he might produce. It seemed
a wonderful promotion from five dollars a week to twenty-five. To be
sure, when in the real estate office he had picked up extra
compensation for outside work, but this was precarious and could not be
depended on. With twenty-five dollars a week he would feel rich. This
set him to considering that he must have a better room if he was to do
work at home. In the same house where he now occupied a hall bedroom
was a large, square room well lighted with two windows, well furnished
and having a good writing desk, left by some previous tenant in part
payment of arrears of rent, which he could have for five dollars a
week. He had often thought he would like to occupy it, and wished he
might find an agreeable roommate who would share the expense with him.
Now he felt that he could bear the expense alone. He lost no time in
securing it and moving his few belongings in.
Mrs. Crosby, his landlady, was rather surprised.
“You must be doing well,” she said.
Chester smiled.
“I have been discharged from my position in the real estate office,” he
said.
“Then,” said the landlady, in some dismay, “isn’t it imprudent to take
a more expensive room?”
“I have secured a much better place.”
“Oh! that alters the case. Is it likely to be permanent?”
“If I lose it I will go back to my old room.”
“I am sure I am glad to hear of your good luck, Mr. Rand. It is very
seldom that a young man of your age——”
“Call me a boy. I am not a young man yet.”
“You seem to be getting on as well as a young man. I think you are real
smart.”
“You mustn’t flatter me, Mrs. Crosby. You will make me vain. I forgot
to say that I shall be a considerable part of the time in my room. That
is why I want a larger one.”
“But when will you work?” asked the landlady, puzzled.
“I shall work in my room.”
“But what work can you do there?”
“I am an artist; that is, I am to make drawings for a new magazine.”
“You don’t say so? Will that pay?”
“Very handsomely.”
“I hope you will show me some of them. I never met an artist before.”
“I am afraid I am not much of an artist. I can show you one of my
pictures now.”
Chester took from the table a number of _Puck_ and pointed out a
sketch.
“That’s pretty good,” said the landlady. “You wouldn’t get more than
thirty-five cents for such a picture, would you?”
“I was paid five dollars for that.”
“Do tell!” exclaimed Mrs. Crosby, who was brought up in a country town
and still used some of the expressions which were familiar to her in
early days. “I can’t hardly believe it. It seems foolish to pay so much
for such a little thing.”
“I don’t think it foolish, Mrs. Crosby. It must pay them, or they
wouldn’t keep on doing it.”
Chester moved into his new room and enjoyed his ample accommodations
very much. The next day he went to the office of _The Phoenix_ and
carried in two sketches. They were fortunate enough to win the approval
of the editor.
“I see you are practical and understand what we want, Mr. Rand,” he
said. Just behind Chester was a man of fifty, rather shabby and
neglectful in his personal appearance. He might be described as an
artist going to seed. Whatever talent he might have had originally had
been dulled and obscured by chronic intemperance.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, deferentially, “but I would like to submit a
couple of sketches. I am Guy Radcliff.”
“Glad to see you, Mr. Radcliff. Let me examine them.”
“I am afraid,” said the editor, after a brief examination, “that these
are not quite what we want.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Mr. Radcliff, indignantly. “You scorn my
work, yet accept the sketches of that boy!” pointing at Chester with
withering contempt.
“Because he has given me what I want.”
“I was a famous artist before he was born.”
“Very likely, and had done good work. But this is not good work.”
“Sir!”
“My dear sir, don’t be offended. I don’t care for the age of any of my
contributors. I know something of your famous successes, and I hope
next time to approve and buy what you bring me.”
Mr. Radcliff seemed only half propitiated. He and Chester went out
together.
“What is your name, boy?” asked the artist.
“Chester Rand.”
“I never heard of you.”
“I am only a beginner,” said Chester, modestly.
“You seem to have got in with Fleming.”
“I may not keep in with him.”
“Are you doing pretty well?”
“Yes, for a boy.”
“Have you got a loose quarter about you? I haven’t done much work
lately, and am hard up.”
Chester took half a dollar from his pocket and handed it to the elder
man. His compassion was stirred as he felt for Radcliff’s humiliation
in being obliged to make such an appeal to a boy like himself.
“Thank you. You’re a gentleman. I’ll return it soon,” said Radcliff,
looking relieved. “Good luck to you! You’re a good fellow, after all.”
“I wish you good luck, too, Mr. Radcliff.”
Chester did not need to be told what had brought the elder artist into
such an impecunious condition. His face with its unnatural flush showed
that his habits had been far from creditable.
“If I needed anything to keep me from drinking, Mr. Radcliff’s example
would be sufficient,” thought Chester. He had before now been invited
to take a drink at some convenient saloon, but he had never been
tempted to do so.
Two days later Chester was walking through Union Square when he came
face to face with Felix Gordon.
Felix espied him first.
“Hello! Chester,” said his successor.
“Hello! I didn’t see you.”
“I envy you.”
“Why?”
“You have nothing to do but to enjoy yourself,” answered Felix,
significantly.
“Oh, that’s it!” said Chester, smiling. He saw that Felix thought him
to be out of employment.
“That was the case with you before you succeeded me in the real estate
office. How do you like it?”
“Pretty well, but I think I ought to get more salary. You got five
dollars, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I will try and get six when Mr. Fairchild gets back.”
“I wish you success.”
“You don’t feel any grudge against me for taking your place?”
“No; it wasn’t you who got me discharged.”
“I thought you’d be in to get a letter of recommendation from cousin
David.”
“Would he give me one?”
“I don’t know. Are you trying to get a place?”
“No.”
Felix looked surprised.
“You ain’t rich, are you?” he asked.
“No; what makes you ask?”
“I don’t see how you can live without any salary.”
“I couldn’t. I ought to tell you that I have got a place.”
“You have?” exclaimed Felix, in surprise, and it must be confessed,
disappointment.
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“In the office of a new paper.”
“What is it?”
“_The Phoenix_, a comic paper just started.”
“Where is the office?”
“In Nassau Street.”
“Then why are you not there?”
“I don’t have to be there all the time.”
“Do you get good pay?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I get more than I did at the real estate office.”
“You don’t say!”
“Yes. I was in luck.”
“Do you get six dollars?”
“More. I don’t care to tell you just how much I get.”
“By the way, there was an old man in the office yesterday inquiring
after you.”
“Did he give his name?”
“Yes. He said his name was Silas Tripp.”
“What on earth brought Mr. Tripp to New York?” Chester asked himself.
This question will be answered in the next chapter.