“I am in New York,” went on Judson Tate, “for the purpose of organizing a company to market the greatest remedy for throat affections ever discovered.  At present I am introducing the lozenges in a small way.  I have here a box containing four dozen, which I am selling for the small sum of fifty cents.  If you are suffering—­”

I got up and went away without a word.  I walked slowly up to the little park near my hotel, leaving Judson Tate alone with his conscience.  My feelings were lacerated.  He had poured gently upon me a story that I might have used.  There was a little of the breath of life in it, and some of the synthetic atmosphere that passes, when cunningly tinkered, in the marts.  And, at the last it had proven to be a commercial pill, deftly coated with the sugar of fiction.  The worst of it was that I could not offer it for sale.  Advertising departments and counting-rooms look down upon me.  And it would never do for the literary.  Therefore I sat upon a bench with other disappointed ones until my eyelids drooped.

I went to my room, and, as my custom is, read for an hour stories in my favourite magazines.  This was to get my mind back to art again.

And as I read each story, I threw the magazines sadly and hopelessly, one by one, upon the floor.  Each author, without one exception to bring balm to my heart, wrote liltingly and sprightly a story of some particular make of motor-car that seemed to control the sparking plug of his genius.

And when the last one was hurled from me I took heart.

“If readers can swallow so many proprietary automobiles,” I said to myself, “they ought not to strain at one of Tate’s Compound Magic Chuchula Bronchial Lozenges.”

And so if you see this story in print you will understand that business is business, and that if Art gets very far ahead of Commerce, she will have to get up and hustle.

I may as well add, to make a clean job of it, that you can’t buy the chuchula plant in the drug stores.

VI

ART AND THE BRONCO

Out of the wilderness had come a painter.  Genius, whose coronations alone are democratic, had woven a chaplet of chaparral for the brow of Lonny Briscoe.  Art, whose divine expression flows impartially from the fingertips of a cowboy or a dilettante emperor, had chosen for a medium the Boy Artist of the San Saba.  The outcome, seven feet by twelve of besmeared canvas, stood, gilt-framed, in the lobby of the Capitol.

The legislature was in session; the capital city of that great Western state was enjoying the season of activity and profit that the congregation of the solons bestowed.  The boarding-houses were corralling the easy dollars of the gamesome lawmakers.  The greatest state in the West, an empire in area and resources, had arisen and repudiated the old libel or barbarism, lawbreaking, and bloodshed.  Order