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 and Chinese preserves back with him from his long absences. Once he bought a bottle of liquid polish and blackened the gas stove.

In spite of Pittsey's efforts to keep up a cheerful spirit in the apartment, their meals became "lugubrious feeds," as he complained. "What's wrong with you two?" he remonstrated. "Here you are, seeing New York inexpensively, with all the comforts of home! And you're down in the mouth because a Wall Street millionaire hasn't offered you a partnership and a private yacht. What do you expect? Look at me. If I went to Newspaper Row asking for work, I'd never get past the office-boys at the doors. But if I send in an article through the mail, and an editor likes it, I get a little cheque. If I do it again, I have an introduction to Mr. Editor. I keep it up. In six months I begin to ask for a place on the staff. You two start by asking for the place first, and give up hope when the office-boy says 'Nothin' doin'.' What do you expect? Miracles? Don't be so blamed unreasonable. You're not the heroes of a novel, you know; impossibilities aren't going to happen to you just to help out the plot!"

He was rolling out cracker crumbs with a milk bottle preparatory to baking a dish of what he called "tomato slush." Conroy was cleaning smelts with a penknife. Don was laying the table.

Conroy said: "Oh, you're all right. You have something to sell. I have nothing and I'm in debt."

"You needn't worry about that," Don put in. "The money's as much yours as mine."

"How? . . . How is it?"