"Oh, he doesn't know. He'll take almost anything. I'll give him seventy-five dollars." "That's all right," said the Editor as the Art Director took the drawing down. "There's something new there. You ought to hang on to him." "I will," replied his associate. "He's young yet. He doesn't want to be encouraged too much." He went out, pulling a solemn countenance. "I like this fairly well," he said. "We may be able to find room for it. I'll send you a check shortly if you'll let me have your address." Eugene gave it. His heart was beating a gay tattoo in his chest. He did not think anything of price, in fact it did not occur to him. All that was in his mind was the picture as a double page spread. So he had really sold one after all and to _Truth_! Now he could honestly say he had made some progress. Now he could write Angela and tell her. He could send her copies when it came out. He could really have something to point to after this and best of all, now he knew he could do street scenes. He went out into the street treading not the grey stone pavement but air. He threw back his head and breathed deep. He thought of other scenes like this which he could do. His dreams were beginning to be realized--he, Eugene Witla, the painter of a double page spread in _Truth_! Already he was doing a whole series in his imagination, all he had ever dreamed of. He wanted to run and tell Shotmeyer--to buy him a good meal. He almost loved him, commonplace hack that he was--because he had suggested to him the right thing to do. "Say, Shotmeyer," he said, sticking his head in that worthy's door, "you and I eat tonight. _Truth_ took that drawing." "Isn't that fine," said his floor-mate, without a trace of envy. "Well, I'm glad. I thought they'd like it." Eugene could have cried. Poor Shotmeyer! He wasn't a good artist, but he had a good heart. He would never forget him. CHAPTER XVII This one significant sale with its subsequent check of seventy-five dollars and later the appearance of the picture in color, gave Eugene such a lift in spirit that he felt, for the time being, as though his art career had reached a substantial basis, and he began to think of going to Blackwood to visit Angela. But first he must do some more work. He concentrated his attention on several additional scenes, doing a view of Greeley Square in a sopping drizzle, and a picture of an L train speeding up the Bowery on its high, thin trestle of steel. He had an eye for contrasts, picking out lights and shadows sharply, making wonderful blurs that were like colors in precious stones, confused and suggestive. He took one of these after a month to _Truth_, and again the Art Director was his victim. He tried to be indifferent, but it was hard. The young man had something that he wanted. "You might show me anything else you do in this line," he said. "I can use a few if they come up to these two."