"And yet people get along very well without them," smiled Robert. "They can't have very elevated tastes." "Perhaps more elevated than you think, Livingston. I've known some lumbermen who were very well educated." "If I made a change do you know what I would do?" asked Palmer. "No." "I would go on the stage," said the senior clerk earnestly. "What stage? Perhaps the variety stage the adorable Alameda is on, eh?" "No! no! I am done with that forever. I would go in for tragedy." "Tragedy doesn't pay, so I've heard said." "Good, real talent will pay, I feel sure of it." "And what would you play, Hamlet?" "I would play all of Shakespeare's plays, but the part of Sparticus the Gladiator would suit me better." "Did you ever act?" "Twice--at the Twice-a-week Club. We gave Julius Cæsar, and I was Cæsar. The performance was a great success from an artistic standpoint." "How about it financially?" "Well, to tell the truth, we ran about thirty-three dollars behind." "Which proves what I said, that tragedy doesn't pay," said Robert, with a short laugh. "My support was very poor, and, besides, our performance was not advertised widely enough." "I presume the newspapers gave you some favorable notices." "No, they did nothing of the sort. We had not given them much advertising and so they ignored us. You know they won't do a thing without being paid for it." "I didn't know it. I thought they gave the news. Why, sometimes they condemn a play even while they advertise it." "Never mind, they ought to have praised our play, but they didn't." And here Palmer walked away and the subject was dropped. CHAPTER XIV. JAMES TALBOT LEARNS SOMETHING OF IMPORTANCE. A week passed and nothing of special interest happened. During that time Robert wrote to his mother, telling her where he was and what he was doing. He hoped to receive a letter in return, and was quite disappointed when no word came back. The trouble was that the letter he had sent fell into James Talbot's hands. "Here is a letter for Mrs. Talbot," said the postmaster, one day to Talbot, when the latter had called at the place for the mail. "All right, I'll take it home to her," answered Robert's step-father. "It's from Chicago," said the postmaster, whose name was Joel Blarcomb. "It looks like Robert's handwriting, too." "Do you know Robert's writing?" questioned Mr. Talbot. "Very well. He once did some writing for me in my books, when I had injured my finger on a nail in a sugar barrel," said the postmaster, who also kept the principal store in Granville. "Well, give me the letter and I will take it home," said Mr. Talbot, and soon after left the store with the communication in his pocket. As soon as he was out of sight of the store he began to inspect the letter and wondered what it contained. "More than likely the young rascal has sent to his mother for money," he thought. "I've a good mind to open the letter and read it."