"Same as me--hopeful. We may have to sleep on excelsior for a while yet,
but we shall soon stop eating it. And the first thing we do with the coin
will be to give old Warren heart-disease by going down in a body and
paying up all our back rent. I'm figuring on pulling out about two
thousand for my share. Then if I want pie I can have it, without stopping
to feel in my pocket first."
Little O'Grady babbled along as he delineated the mental state of the
other Bunnies. They all felt the situation in the air--they all felt it
in their bones. They all wanted a hand in things--a finger in the pie.
There was Festus Gowan, who did little beyond landscapes, but who thought
he could make some headway with faces and draperies if pushed to it.
There was Mordreth, who did little but portraits--and "deaders" at
that--but who fancied he might come out reasonably strong on landscape
and on architectural accessories if somebody would only give him a
chance. There was Felix Stalinski, who had lately left "spot-knocking"
for general designing and who thought that if a man was able to turn out
a good, effective poster he might consider himself equal to almost
anything. And there was Stephen Giles, who had recently been decorating
reception halls and dining-rooms for the high and mighty and who saw no
reason why he shouldn't take a higher flight still and adorn the palaces
where the money was made instead of those where it was spent. "No use in
my talking to you about _him_, though," broke off Little O'Grady. "He
ain't one of us any more. He's one of you, now."
"I hope you fellows don't feel that way----" began Dill.
"He's a renegade," declared Little O'Grady. "But never mind; we like him
all the same. Some day he may be glad to leave the Temple and come back
to us again at the Warren. That'll be all right. We'll welcome him; we'll
share our last mouthful of excelsior with him." Little O'Grady gave
another joyful kick into the air. "Well, his room didn't stay empty long;
Gowan moved down right away, and a new man took Gowan's room only day
before yesterday--so old Ezekiel won't lose more'n about fourteen
dollars' rent, after all. Chap's got his name out already: Ignace
Pr--Pr----Well, anyway, it begins with a P. He makes rattling strong
coffee, by the smell, and tinkles now and then on the thing-a-ma-jig.
They say he's terrible smart--full of the real old stuff."
"Has Gowan been thinking up anything in particular?"
"Well, he's thinking he sees that money piled up in the bank vaults. We
all do. And we want to get at it. Say, great thing to be working for a
bank, eh? No flighty, shilly-shallying, notional women, but a lot of
steady, sober business-men who'll make a good straight contract and keep
it. No saying, 'Well, my daughter doesn't altogether fancy this,' or, 'I
will take your sketches home to my husband and we will think about
them,'--and then never telling us _what_ they think. Sure pay, too. And
prompt, as well. Quarter down, let us say, on submitting the general
scheme of decoration; another quarter as soon as we begin actual
work----Yes, sir, I almost feel as if I saw my way to meat once a day
right through the week!"