“Oh, there now, Loudon, you’re entirely wrong,” he broke in.  “That’s what the public likes; that’s the merit of the thing, the literary value.  It’s to call up the scene before them; it’s to enable the humblest citizen to enjoy that afternoon the same as I did.  Think what it would have been to me when I was tramping around with my tin-types to find a column and a half of real, cultured conversation—­an artist, in his studio abroad, talking of his art—­and to know how he looked as he did it, and what the room was like, and what he had for breakfast; and to tell myself, eating tinned beans beside a creek, that if all went well, the same sort of thing would, sooner or later, happen to myself:  why, Loudon, it would have been like a peephole into heaven!”

“Well, if it gives so much pleasure,” I admitted, “the sufferers shouldn’t complain.  Only give the other fellows a turn.”

The end of the matter was to bring myself and the journalist in a more close relation.  If I know anything at all of human nature—­and the if is no mere figure of speech, but stands for honest doubt—­no series of benefits conferred, or even dangers shared, would have so rapidly confirmed our friendship as this quarrel avoided, this fundamental difference of taste and training accepted and condoned.

CHAPTER IV.  IN WHICH I EXPERIENCE EXTREMES OF FORTUNE.

Whether it came from my training and repeated bankruptcy at the commercial college, or by direct inheritance from old Loudon, the Edinburgh mason, there can be no doubt about the fact that I was thrifty.  Looking myself impartially over, I believe that is my only manly virtue.  During my first two years in Paris I not only made it a point to keep well inside of my allowance, but accumulated considerable savings in the bank.  You will say, with my masquerade of living as a penniless student, it must have been easy to do so:  I should have had no difficulty, however, in doing the reverse.  Indeed, it is wonderful I did not; and early in the third year, or soon after I had known Pinkerton, a singular incident proved it to have been equally wise.  Quarter-day came, and brought no allowance.  A letter of remonstrance was despatched, and for the first time in my experience, remained unanswered.  A cablegram was more effectual; for it brought me at least a promise of attention.  “Will write at once,” my father telegraphed; but I waited long for his letter.  I was puzzled, angry, and alarmed; but thanks to my previous thrift, I cannot say that I was ever practically embarrassed.  The embarrassment, the distress, the agony, were all for my unhappy father at home in Muskegon, struggling for life and fortune against untoward chances, returning at night from a day of ill-starred shifts and ventures, to read and perhaps to weep over that last harsh letter from his only child, to which he lacked the courage to reply.

Nearly three months after time, and when my economies were beginning to run low, I received at last a letter with the customary bills of exchange.