hen he was penniless, for at that time he
anticipated twenty-four. Wrinkles lectured upon "Finance."

Great Grief said nothing, for it was established that when he received
six dollar cheques from comic weeklies he dreamed of renting studios at
seventy-five dollars per month, and was likely to go out and buy five
dollars' worth of second-hand curtains and plaster casts.

When he had money Penny always hated the cluttered den in the old
building. He desired to go out and breathe boastfully like a man. But he
obeyed Wrinkles, the elder and the wise, and if you had visited that
room about ten o'clock of a morning or about seven of an evening you
would have thought that rye bread, frankfurters, and potato salad from
Second Avenue were the only foods in the world.

Purple Sanderson lived there too, but then he really ate. He had learned
parts of the gasfitter's trade before he came to be such a great artist,
and when his opinions disagreed with that of every art manager in New
York, he went to see a plumber, a friend of his, for whose opinion he
had a great respect. In consequence, he frequented a very great
restaurant on Twenty-third Street, and sometimes on Saturday nights he
openly scorned his companions.

Purple was a good fellow, Grief said, but one of his singularly bad
traits was that he always remembered everything. One night, not long
after little Pennoyer's great discovery, Purple came in, and as he was
neatly hanging up his coat, said: "Well, the rent will be due in four
days."

"Will it?" demanded Penny, astounded. Penny was always astounded when
the rent came due. It seemed to him the most extraordinary occurrence.

"Certainly it will," said Purple, with the irritated air of a superior
financial man.

"My soul!" said Wrinkles.

Great Grief lay on the bed smoking a pipe and waiting for fame. "Oh, go
home, Purple. You resent something. It wasn't me, it was the calendar."

"Try and be serious a moment, Grief."

"You're a fool, Purple."

Penny spoke from where he was at work. "Well, if those _Amazement
Magazine_ people pay me when they said they would I'll have money then."

"So you will, dear," said Grief, satirically. "You'll have money to
burn. Did the _Amazement_ people ever pay you when they said they
would? You're wonderfully important all of a sudden, it seems to me. You
talk like an artist."

Wrinkles, too, smiled at little Pennoyer. "The _Established Magazine_
people wanted Penny to hire mod