rector
approved it on sight, though he said nothing, but carried it in to the
Editor.

"Here's a thing that I consider a find in its way."

He set it proudly upon the editorial desk.

"Say," said the Editor, laying down a manuscript, "that's the real
thing, isn't it? Who did that?"

"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 Dore 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.

He went out into the street treading not the grey stone pavement but
air. He threw back his head and breathed deep. He thought of other
scenes like this which he could do. His dreams were beginning to be
realized--he, Eugene Witla, the painter of a double page spread in
_Truth_! Already he was doing a whole series in his imagination, all he
had ever dreamed of. He wanted to run and tell Shotmeyer--to buy him a
good meal. He almost loved him, commonplace hack that he was--because he
had suggested to him the right thing to do.

"Say, Shotmeyer," he said, sticking his head in that worthy's door, "you
and I eat tonight. _Truth_ took that drawing."

"Isn't that fine," said his floor-mate, without a trace of envy. "W