People like your work immensely. I
don't know why, but they do. They say you have a fresh touch and a new way of
drawing things. And, because they're chiefly home-bred English, they say you
have insight. You're wanted by half a dozen papers; you're wanted to illustrate
books."
Dick grunted scornfully.
"You're wanted to work up your smaller sketches and sell them to the dealers.
They seem to think the money sunk in you is a good investment. Good Lord! who
can account for the fathomless folly of the public?"
"They're a remarkably sensible people."
"They are subject to fits, if that's what you mean; and you happen to be the
object of the latest fit among those who are interested in what they call Art.
Just now you're a fashion, a phenomenon, or whatever you please. I appeared to
be the only person who knew anything about you here, and I have been showing
the most useful men a few of the sketches you gave me from time to time. Those
coming after your work on the Central Southern Syndicate appear to have done
your business. You're in luck."
"Huh! call it luck! Do call it luck, when a man has been kicking about the
world like a dog, waiting for it to come! I'll luck 'em later on. I want a
place to work first.
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