would boil. It was a habitual pose.

Great Grief, however, seemed to observe something bitter in the affair.
"When did you discover that you couldn't draw?" he said stiffly.

"I haven't discovered it yet," replied Corinson, with a serene air. "I
merely discovered that I would rather eat."

"Oh!" said Grief.

"Hand me the eggs, Grief," said Wrinkles. "The water's boiling."

Little Pennoyer burst into the conversation. "We'd ask you to dinner,
Corrie, but there's only three of us and there's two eggs. I dropped a
piece of bread on the floor, too. I'd shy one."

"That's all right, Penny," said the other; "don't trouble yourself. You
artists should never be hospitable. I'm going anyway. I've got to make a
call. Well, good night, boys. I've got to make a call. Drop in and see
me."

When the door closed upon him, Grief said: "The coffee's done; I hate
that fellow. That overcoat cost thirty dollars, if it cost a red. His
egotism is so tranquil. It isn't like yours, Wrinkles. He--"

The door opened again and Corinson thrust in his head. "Say, you
fellows, you know it's Thanksgiving to-morrow?"

"Well, what of it?" demanded Grief.

Little Pennoyer said: "Yes, I know it is, Corrie, I thought of it this
morning."

"Well, come out and have a table d'hote with me to-morrow night. I'll
blow you off in good style."

While Wrinkles played an exuberant air on his guitar, little Pennoyer
did part of a ballet. They cried ecstatically: "Will we? Well, I guess
yes?"

When they were alone again, Grief said: "I'm not going, anyhow. I hate
that fellow."

"Oh, fiddle," said Wrinkles. "You're an infernal crank. And besides,
where's your dinner coming from to-morrow night if you don't go? Tell me
that."

Little Pennoyer said: "Yes, that's so, Grief. Where's your dinner coming
from if you don't go?"

Grief said: "Well, I hate him, anyhow."

* * * * *

AS TO PAYMENT OF THE RENT.

Little Pennoyer's four dollars could not last for ever. When he received
it he and Wrinkles and Great Grief went to a table d'hote. Afterwards
little Pennoyer discovered that only two dollars and a half remained. A
small magazine away down town had accepted one out of the six drawings
that he had taken them, and later had given him four dollars for it.
Penny was so disheartened when he saw that his money was not going to
last for ever, that even with two dollars and a half in his pockets, he
felt much worse than w