You can imagine the sort of work I was doing for those
exporting people--of course, I always intended to draw; do
illustrating for magazines; there's a pile of money in it."
"Why didn't you? You've got to buckle down if you want to make good,"
suggested Dean with cold formalism.
"I tried, a little, but my stuff's crude. I've got talent, Phil; I can
draw--but I just don't know how. I ought to go to art school and I
can't afford it. Well, things came to a crisis about a week ago. Just
as I was down to about my last dollar this girl began bothering me.
She wants some money; claims she can make trouble for me if she
doesn't get it."
"Can she?"
"I'm afraid she can. That's one reason I lost my job--she kept calling
up the office all the time, and that was sort of the last straw down
there. She's got a letter all written to send to my family. Oh, she's
got me, all right. I've got to have some money for her."
There was an awkward pause. Gordon lay very still, his hands clenched
by his side.
"I'm all in," he continued, his voice trembling. "I'm half crazy,
Phil. If I hadn't known you were coming East, I think I'd have killed
myself. I want you to lend me three hundred dollars."
Dean's hands, which had been patting his bare ankles, were suddenly
quiet--and the curious uncertainty playing between the two became taut
and strained.
After a second Gordon continued:
"I've bled the family until I'm ashamed to ask for another nickel.
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