"The kind in the magazine story. Harvard man, half-back, old New York family, named Van-Something or other; unhappy love affair; tries ranch life; fearless rider, dead shot 'six feet of clean-limbed, virile young manhood,' is the approved phrase for him. He's a beautiful thing--his man keeps his chaps pressed, and he never is seen needing a shave----" Ewing grinned appreciatively. "Girl comes out from New York," continued Piersoll--"_the_ girl, with her fierce aunt--home on north side of Washington Square. I'm going to do an article on the story people who've had fine old homes on the north side of Washington Square--thousands! That one block would have to be ten miles long to hold 'em. Girl in tea gown, fierce aunt with lorgnon--threatened with death--flood, fire, Apaches, stage-robbers, vicious bull, rattler--anything! Rescued by cool, daring, clean-limbed Van-Soforth, who says 'By Jove!' as he risks his life. That is, if it's in one of the respectable magazines. If it's only a young ten-center he says 'Damn!' right out in print. Then, love scene on mesa, faithful cow pony and mountains in background, and return to New York by next train, with clean-limbed Harold in one of our gent's nobby sack suits that sets off the unconscious grace of his slight but muscular figure--oh, you know the story." "I have read it somewhere--something like it." "You'll go on reading it. But you'll have to pretty your cowboys if you make the pictures for it. Hulston usually illustrates it. He can draw a cowboy that would make a bunch of violets look coarse." "I'm afraid I couldn't----" "Of course you couldn't. But you'll find work. Some of the magazines are becoming reckless and printing stories of cowboys that are almost real. Come along to the club. You'll meet some fellows there. The chap that printed my book is dining with me, but he'll slip off early and we can have the evening together." "I liked your book," Ewing ventured, when they were in the street. "Well, that's comforting. I dare say it was easier to read than it was to write. But about this club you're going to--it's a little place we've started lately--illustrators, newspaper men, book writers and that ilk. You must join. I believe I'll be safe in putting you up." "I never joined a club," Ewing confessed. "Are there conditions?" "Rigid ones--you must have ten dollars for the entrance-fee, and not be a leper." "Well"--Ewing debated--"I have the money----"