Chester Rand | Page 6

doesn't matter how old or young an artist is."
"I should like very much to get something for it. Even fifty cents would
be acceptable."
"You hold your talent cheap, Chester," said Mr. Conrad, with a smile.
"I shall certainly ask more than that for it, as I don't approve of
cheapening artistic labor."
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly.
When Chester rose to go, Mr. Conrad said:
"Take these papers, Chester. You can study them at your leisure, and if
any happy thoughts or brilliant ideas come to you, dash them off and
send them to me. I might do something with them."
"Thank you, sir. What is your address?"
"Number one ninety-nine West Thirty-fourth Street. Well, good-by. I
am glad to have met you. Sometime you may be an artist."
Chester flushed with pride, and a new hope rose in his breast. He had
always enjoyed drawing, but no one had ever encouraged him in it.
Even his mother thought of it only as a pleasant diversion for him. As
to its bringing him in money, the idea had never occurred to him.
It seemed wonderful, indeed, that a little sketch, the work of half an
hour, should bring ten dollars. Why compare with this the hours of toil
in a grocery store--seventy, at least--which had been necessary to earn
the small sum of three dollars. For the first time Chester began to
understand the difference between manual and intelligent labor.
It was ten o'clock when Chester left the minister's house--a late hour in
Wyncombe--and he had nearly reached his own modest home before he

met anyone. Then he overtook a man of perhaps thirty, thinly clad and
shivering in the bitter, wintry wind. He was a stranger, evidently, for
Chester knew everyone in the village, and he was tempted to look back.
The young man, encouraged perhaps by this evidence of interest, spoke,
hurriedly:
"Do you know," he asked, "where I can get a bed for the night?"
"Mr. Tripp has a few rooms that he lets to strangers. He is the
storekeeper."
The young man laughed, but there was no merriment in the laugh.
"Oh, yes. I know Silas Tripp," he said.
"Then you have been in Wyncombe before?"
"I never lived here, but I know Silas Tripp better than I want to. He is
my uncle."
"Your uncle!" exclaimed Chester, in surprise.
"Yes, I am his sister's son. My name is Walter Bruce."
"Then I should think your uncle's house was the place for you."
"I have no money to pay for a bed."
"But, if you are a relation----"
"That makes no difference to Silas Tripp. He has no love for poor
relations. You don't know him very well."
"I ought to, for I have worked for him in the store for a year."
"I didn't see you in there this evening."
"I left him last Saturday evening. There is another boy there now."

"Why did you leave him?"
"Because he wanted to cut down my wages from three dollars to two
dollars and a quarter."
"Just like uncle Silas. I see you know him."
"Have you seen him since you came to Wyncombe?"
"I was in the store this evening."
"Did you make yourself known to him?"
"Yes."
"Didn't he invite you to spend the night in the house?"
"Not he. He saw by my dress that I was poor, and gave me a lecture on
my shiftless ways."
"Still he might have taken care of you for one night."
"He wouldn't. He told me he washed his hands of me."
Chester looked sober. He was shocked by Silas Tripp's want of
humanity.
"You asked me where you could find a bed," he said. "Come home
with me, and I can promise you shelter for one night, at least."
"Thank you, boy," said Bruce, grasping Chester's hand. "You have a
heart. But--perhaps your parents might object."
"I have no father. My mother is always ready to do a kind act."
"Then I will accept your kind offer. I feared I should have to stay out
all night."
"And without an overcoat," said Chester, compassionately.

"Yes, I had to part with my overcoat long since. I could not afford such
a luxury. I suppose you understand!"
"You sold it?"
"No, I pawned it. I didn't get much for it--only three dollars, but it
would be as easy for me to take the church and move it across the street
as to redeem it."
"You appear to have been unfortunate."
"Yes. Fortune and I are at odds. Yet I ought to have some money."
"How's that?"
"When my mother died uncle Silas acted as executor of her estate. It
was always supposed that she had some money--probably from two to
three thousand dollars--but when uncle Silas rendered