Mr. Snodgrass led the way to a small restaurant two or three streets distant, and the two went in and seated themselves at a table covered with a cloth of far from immaculate whiteness.

Taking up the bill of fare, Ben was pleased to find that the prices were very moderate.

“Do you often come here, Mr. Snodgrass?” he asked.

“Yes, except when I have occasion to be down town. Then I go into a restaurant on Park Row.”

“The only place I ever heard mentioned before I came here is Delmonico’s.”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Snodgrass. “Del keeps a fine place, but I seldom go there. In a small place like this you are more apt to meet men and women of brains. One evening I met here Gloriana Podd, the great poetess. Of course you have heard of her?”

“I am not sure that I have.”

“She writes for several of the popular weeklies, and I am told that her poems are sometimes copied in the London papers. I am surprised that you haven’t heard of her.”

“My stepfather didn’t take any weekly papers. He thought too much of his money.”

“Then I presume you had never heard of me.”

Ben acknowledged that he had not.

“You were evidently buried in the country. Now that you are in a great metropolis you will live—and learn.”

“I hope so.”

“Of course I will do all I can for you. I will introduce you to our editor at any time.”

“Thank you, but I will wait a little. I think he would not care to meet a boy.”

“Any friend of mine would be welcome, Mr. Bruce. But here comes the waiter. What will you have?”

“Give your order first, Mr. Snodgrass.”

“A plate of corned beef hash and a cup of coffee,” said Mr. Snodgrass.

“You may bring me some fried eggs and a cup of tea,” added Ben.

The hash was brought and with it a few slices of bread and a square of pale butter. The hash did not look very inviting, but the novelist partook of it with evident relish. “I think I will take a piece of pie,” he said, as the last mouthful of hash disappeared, “Ralph Waldo Emerson ate pie at every meal. Of course you have heard of Emerson.”

“Yes; did he write for the Bugle?” asked Ben with a smile.

“No; our readers prefer romance. It may seem presumptuous in me to say so, but I really believe they enjoy my productions better than the essays of Emerson.”

“I have no doubt of it. I hope, Mr. Snodgrass, you will give me a chance to read some of your stories.”

“I will with pleasure. I have several of them in weekly numbers of the Bugle.”

Ben, too, ventured upon a piece of pie. He did not wholly enjoy the dishes provided at the restaurant. He felt that he should have preferred his mother’s cooking. The charges, however, were moderate. Only twenty cents for each person.

Mr. Snodgrass rose from the table and took up his check.

Then he thrust his hand into his pockets, and after a little his face wore an air of perplexity.

“I really believe I haven’t any money with me,” he said. “I must have left it in the pockets of my other trousers. Awkward, isn’t it?” “I will advance you the money, Mr. Snodgrass,” said Ben.

“Thank you,” rejoined the novelist with an air of relief. “You shall soon have it back. The publisher of the Bugle is owing me a balance of ten dollars on my serial, and that I shall probably collect to-morrow. I shall be glad to reimburse you.”

“No hurry, Mr. Snodgrass!”

“You are very kind, Mr. Bruce. I am really delighted to have made your acquaintance.”

“Thank you. Were you always an author, Mr. Snodgrass?”

“I was a schoolboy once,” said the novelist facetiously.

“Of course, but when were you old enough to go to work?”

“I used to work at Macy’s, but I felt it was drudgery. It was poor business for a man of intellect and imagination. I wrote a few short stories for the weeklies, and one day, having a little difference with my employer, I resigned, and boldly threw myself upon literature as an avocation.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Almost a year since.”

“And have you got along pretty well?” “I have had to live a life of self-denial, but I am working for the future. Some day I mean to make the name of Sylvanus Snodgrass renowned. What will my old friends at Macy’s say then?”

“They will congratulate you, I should think.”

Mr. Snodgrass shook his head.

“No, they will be jealous of my fame,” he said. “Some of them even now turn up their noses at me. They have no soul above the goods they sell. They do not realize that my stories are read all over the United States. An old schoolmate of mine in San Francisco wrote me last week that he read everything I wrote.”

“That must be very gratifying,” remarked Ben.

“It is, Mr. Bruce. I hope you may be induced to try your hand at a story.”

“I will think of it after I have a place.”

“I shall be glad to give you points and read your productions critically. Have you had any place yet?”

“I was for a short time in the employ of Mr. Grant Griswold, living on Fifth Avenue, but he sailed for Europe this morning.”

“So you are out of a place.”

“At present, yes.” “Suppose we walk up to Union Square and take a seat on one of the benches.”

“Very well.”

They found an unoccupied bench and sat down.

Presently a rather short young man with dark hair and a small mustache approached.

Mr. Snodgrass pointed him out.

“That is Cornelius Clyde, the poet,” he said.

“Indeed!”

“Would you like to be introduced?”

“I have no objection.”

“It is a great privilege to know Clyde,” said Mr. Snodgrass, who thought Ben spoke too indifferently. “How are you, Mr. Clyde?”

“I am well, thanks,” rejoined the poet.

“Won’t you sit down? I should like to introduce you to my friend, Ben Bruce.”

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Bruce. Are you one of us?”

“I am not a writer.”

“Ah, it’s a pity.”

“I shall try to draw Mr. Bruce into our circle,” said Sylvanus. “I have offered to introduce a story, if he will write one, to the notice of our editor.”

“Story? Ah yes,” said the poet condescendingly. “Do you ever write verse, Mr. Bruce?” “I have never tried. I don’t think I could.”

“Of course it is much more difficult than to write stories.”

“Have you written anything new lately, Clyde?” asked Mr. Snodgrass.

“I have just sent one to the office of the Weekly Tomahawk. I would have sent it to the Atlantic Monthly, but that magazine is run by a clique, and no outsider stands any chance of getting in.”

“That is too bad!” said Sylvanus Snodgrass sympathizingly.

“But I shall yet succeed,” went on the poet, earnestly. “The time will come when they will apply to me, and ask me to name my own terms.”

“I hope so, I am sure. I experience the same difficulty. I offered a serial story to the Century three months ago, but it was respectfully declined. What do you think of that?”

“I should have expected it,” answered Clyde.

Mr. Snodgrass looked at the poet to see whether the words contained any hidden meaning, but he was apparently satisfied that no slight was intended, and began to discuss writers and publishers with Mr. Clyde. The names introduced were unknown to Ben, and he was not, therefore, very much interested. “I hear that Gloriana Podd is to bring out a new volume of poems soon,” said Snodgrass. “I wonder you don’t do the same.”

“Has she found a publisher to take the risk?”

“No; it is printed at her own expense.”

“So I supposed. Now I object to that. I shall wait till some publisher asks the privilege of bringing me out in book form.”

Presently the poet rose.

“I have a poem to finish ere I sleep,” he said. “Good night to you both.”

“Good night.”

“Is writing poetry Mr. Clyde’s only business?” asked Ben.

“Well no, not exactly. He couldn’t live on it, you know. He works in a down-town barber shop, but he has his evenings to himself.”

“I should think that would be disagreeable business for a poet,” said Ben in surprise.

“It is not wholly congenial, but he tells me that when he is shaving or cutting hair the most beautiful poetic fancies come to him at times. Then when Saturday night arrives and he pockets his salary, he feels repaid. It is hard for a poet or a romancer when he cannot pay his board.”

“I should think so,” returned Ben.

Just as they parted for the night Mr. Snodgrass observed casually, “I am going to ask a little favor of you, Mr. Bruce.”

“What is it?” asked Ben cautiously.

“I am owing Mrs. Robinson for a week’s room rent. It should have been paid yesterday. If you could kindly lend me two dollars till to-morrow afternoon I will go in and pay her to-night.”

“It is quite out of the question, Mr. Snodgrass,” said Ben decidedly. “I have but a little money, and don’t know when I shall get a place.”

“It is immaterial!” returned Snodgrass. “I thought it possible you could oblige me. Good night!”

“Good night!”

Ben began to think he had better avoid too great intimacy with Sylvanus Snodgrass.