But I am getting ahead of my tale.  In so far as the snake was concerned, he was referring to the assistant who had these snake stories in charge.  “The fatter and more venomous and more scaly they are,” he went on, “the better.  I’d like it if we could use a little color in this paper—­red for eyes and tongue, and blue and green for scales.  The farmers upstate would love that.  They like good but poisonous snakes.”  Then he grinned, stood back and, cocking his head to one side in a most examining and yet approving manner, ran his hand through his hair and beard and added, “A snake can’t be too vital, you know, for this paper.  We have to draw ’em strong, plenty of vitality, plenty of go.”  He grinned most engagingly.

I could not help laughing, of course.  The impertinent air!  The grand, almost condescending manner!

We soon became fast friends.

In the same office in close contact with him was another person, one D——­ W——­, also a newspaper artist, who, while being exceedingly interesting and special in himself, still as a character never seems to have served any greater purpose in my own mind than to have illustrated how emphatic and important Peter was.  He had a thin, pale, Dantesque face, coal black, almost Indian-like hair most carefully parted in the middle and oiled and slicked down at the sides and back until it looked as though it had been glued.  His eyes were small and black and querulous but not mean—­petted eyes they were—­and the mouth had little lines at each corner which seemed to say he had endured much, much pain, which of course he had not, but which nevertheless seemed to ask for, and I suppose earned him some, sympathy.  Dick in his way was an actor, a tragedian of sorts, but with an element of humor, cynicism and insight which saved him from being utterly ridiculous.  Like most actors, he was a great poseur.  He invariably affected the long, loose flowing tie with a soft white or blue or green or brown linen shirt (would any American imitation of the “Quartier Latin” denizen have been without one at that date?), yellow or black gloves, a round, soft crush hat, very soft and limp and very different, patent leather pumps, betimes a capecoat, a slender cane, a boutonniere—­all this in hard, smoky, noisy, commercial St. Louis, full of middle-West business men and farmers!

I would not mention this particular person save that for a time he, Peter and myself were most intimately associated.  We temporarily constituted in our way a “soldiers three” of the newspaper world.  For some years after we were more or less definitely in touch as a group, although later Peter and myself having drifted Eastward and hob-nobbing as a pair had been finding more and more in common and had more and more come to view Dick for what he was:  a character of Dickensian, or perhaps still better, Cruikshankian, proportions and qualities.  But in those days the three of us were all but inseparable; eating, working, playing, all but sleeping together.  I had a studio of sorts in a more or less dilapidated factory section of St. Louis (Tenth near Market; now I suppose briskly commercial), Dick had one at Broadway and Locust, directly opposite the then famous Southern Hotel.  Peter lived with his family on the South Side, a most respectable and homey-home neighborhood.