sked Paul Perkins, looking up from his letter.

"This picture--is one of mine."

"You don't mean it!" exclaimed the man from Minneapolis, dropping his
pen in surprise. "I thought you were an office boy."

"So I am, sir, but--sometimes I sell sketches to the illustrated
papers."

"What did you get for this?"

"Seven dollars and a half. That is, I sold this and another for fifteen
dollars."

"By the great horn spoon! but this is wonderful."

Chester did not feel called upon to say anything.

"How long did it take you to draw this picture?"

"A little over half an hour."

"Jerusalem! that is at the rate of ten dollars an hour. I am contented
to make ten dollars a day."

"So should I be, sir. I don't draw all the time," said Chester, with a
smile.

"I was going to ask if you wouldn't give me lessons in drawing and
sketching."

"I should be afraid to, sir," laughed Chester. "You might prove a
dangerous rival."

"You needn't be afraid. I can play as well as I can sing."

"I suppose you sing well, sir," said Chester, roguishly.

"You can judge. When I was a young man I thought I would practice
singing a little in my room one night. The next morning my landlady
said, in a tone of sympathy, 'I heard you groaning last night, Mr.
Perkins. Did you have the toothache?'"

Chester burst into a hearty laugh.

"If that is the case," he said, "I won't be afraid of you as a rival in
drawing."

Mr. Perkins set himself to finishing his letter, and in twenty minutes
it was done.

"Now, I am ready," he said.

As they went downstairs, Chester observed, "I will ask you as a favor,
Mr. Perkins, not to refer to my work in _Puck_, as it is not known at
the office that I do any work outside."

"All right, my boy. By the way, how much do they pay you at the
office?"

"Five dollars a week."

"Evidently it isn't as good a business as drawing."

"No, sir; but it is more reliable. I can't always satisfy the comic
papers, and I am likely to have sketches left on my hands."

"Yes; that is a practical way of looking at it, and shows that you are
a boy of sense. What sort of a man is Mr. Fairchild?"

"A very kind, considerate man, but I forgot to say that you won't see
him."

"But I thought he sent you to call on me?"

"No, sir; Mr. Fairchild started for the West this morning. It was Mr.
Mullins, the bookkeeper, who sent me."

"That complicates the mystery. Is he a good friend of yours?"

"No, sir; he dislikes me.