nzine, rags of muslin, rolls of
paper, palettes of ink, copper plates and all the _materiel_ of etching
were lying in considerable confusion about the room, and Mac himself,
draped in a blue cotton overall, stood in negligent attitude against an
easel, drinking a cup of tea. I had caught the phrase, "They're a funny
lot," and I divined that Bill's hasty offer of cookies was a mere ruse
to put me off the track of a possibly interesting conversation.

"Finished?" asked Mac, passing me a cup of tea.

"Not yet," I replied. "Another thousand words will do it, though."

Mac, in accordance with a vow made in all sincerity, and approved by us,
set apart one day a week for etching, just as I was supposed to
consecrate some part of my time to literature. At first we were to work
together, select themes, write them up and illustrate them conjointly.
This, we argued, could not fail to condense into fame and even wealth.
Our friend Hooker had done this, and _he_ had climbed to a one-man show
in Fifth Avenue. But by some fatality, whenever Mac took a day off for
high art, on that day did I invariably feel sordidly industrious. I
might idle for a week, smoking too much and getting in Bill's way as she
busied herself with housework, but as soon as the etching-press scraped
across the studio-floor, or Mac came down with camera and satchel and
dressed for a tramp, I became the victim of a mania for work, and stuck
childishly to my desk. Personally I did not believe in Hooker's story at
all. Hooker's mythical librettist never materialized. I was always on
the look-out for a secondhand book containing Hooker's letterpress. It
suited the others to believe in him, but even a writer of advertising
booklets and "appreciations" has a certain literary instinct that cannot
be deceived. And so I felt, as I have said, sordidly industrious and
inclined to look disparagingly upon a man who was frittering away his
time with absurd scratchings upon copper and whose hands were just then
in a most questionable condition.

"I thought you were going to help me," he sneered over his cup.

"The fit was on me," I explained, and my eye roved round the studio. I
caught sight of a piece of paper on a chair. Mac made a movement to pick
it up, but he was hampered by the cup and saucer, and I secured it.

"Ah--h!" I remarked, and they two regarded each other sheepishly. "Very
good indeed, old man!"

And it was very good. With the slap-dash economy of effort w