er the bed and threw open the
stove door preparatory to shovelling some fuel. A red glare plunged in
the first faint shadow of dusk. Little Pennoyer threw down his pen and
tossed his drawing over on the wonderful heap of stuff that hid the
table. "It's too dark to work." He lit his pipe and walked about,
stretching his shoulders like a man whose labour was valuable.

When dusk came it saddened these youths. The solemnity of darkness
always caused them to ponder. "Light the gas, Wrinkles," said Grief.

The flood of orange light showed clearly the dull walls lined with
scratches, the tousled bed in one corner, the mass of boxes and trunks
in another, the little fierce stove, and the wonderful table. Moreover,
there were some wine-coloured draperies flung in some places, and on a
shelf, high up, there was a plaster cast dark with dust in the creases.
A long stove-pipe wandered off in the wrong direction, and then twined
impulsively toward a hole in the wall. There were some extensive cobwebs
on the ceilings.

"Well, let's eat," said Grief.

Later, there came a sad knock at the door. Wrinkles, arranging a tin
pail on the stove, little Pennoyer busy at slicing the bread, and Great
Grief affixing the rubber tube to the gas stove, yelled: "Come in!"

The door opened and Corinson entered dejectedly. His overcoat was very
new. Wrinkles flashed an envious glance at it, but almost immediately he
cried: "Hello, Corrie, old boy!"

Corinson sat down and felt around among the pipes until he found a good
one. Great Grief had fixed the coffee to boil on the gas stove, but he
had to watch it closely, for the rubber tube was short, and a chair was
balanced on a trunk, and then the gas stove was balanced on the chair.
Coffee making was a feat.

"Well," said Grief, with his back turned, "how goes it, Corrie? How's
Art, hey?" He fastened a terrible emphasis upon the word.

"Crayon portraits," said Corinson.

"What?" They turned towards him with one movement, as if from a lever
connection. Little Pennoyer dropped his knife.

"Crayon portraits," repeated Corinson. He smoked away in profound
cynicism. "Fifteen dollars a week or more this time of year, you know."
He smiled at them like a man of courage.

Little Pennoyer picked up his knife again. "Well, I'll be blowed," said
Wrinkles. Feeling it incumbent upon him to think, he dropped into a
chair and began to play serenades on his guitar and watch to see when
the water for the eggs