“Yes, I am Mr. Keeler. I suppose you are disappointed in me. Most people are when they see the people who write books they have read.” “That was a splendid story,” Roy drew in a long breath before he made this reply. He was still looking at Mr. Keeler as if he could not yet quite comprehend the thing. “I’m awfully glad to meet you and I’d like to shake hands.” “With the greatest of pleasure. I’m very glad you liked my book; I know you wouldn’t say so if you didn’t. That’s where boys are superior to grown people. They are almost always sincere in the expression of their opinions.” “Do you know I’ve never seen an author before?” went on Roy, who had wound up his line and had given himself over to a full enjoyment of this unexpected opportunity. “I don’t see how you do it. I hate to write compositions at school. Nearly every boy I know does. Did you?” “Yes, when I had to write on subjects that were assigned by the teacher I used to count the lines then just the same as the rest of the fellows. But when they let me write a story I didn’t mind.” “I don’t see how you can. I should think you’d never know what to say next.” Mr. Keeler smiled, showing his white teeth which contrasted so strongly with the deep tan on his complexion. “Oh, that all comes when you have your scheme arranged,” he said. “But of course you have to possess a natural taste for the work. You can’t suddenly decide that you would like to be an author and then study for it as you might learn to be a carpenter or a mason.” “Oh, it’s like poets, then, who are ‘born, not made,’” returned Roy. “Precisely, and that being the case it comes natural to write, although there is a great deal of hard work about it.” “You said you studied boys. How do you mean?” “Well, take yourself for example. When I saw you sitting here fishing I wanted your picture so I could look at it some day and perhaps make up a story about you.” “A story about me!” exclaimed Roy. Then he added in a sober tone, “I don’t believe you could make up a more wonderful story than something that has really happened to me.” “Is that so? I remember now you said you were very much disturbed over something that you thought would make you look disagreeable.” “Yes, I came down here because I was at odds with myself and everybody else, I wonder what you’d do with a hero who was just in my position. I’ve half a mind to tell you all about it. You don’t know who I am, so it won’t matter. Do you live in Philadelphia?” “No, in New York just at present.” “Good, then I believe I’ll tell you, but you must promise you won’t use it in a book unless I tell you you can.” “Here’s my hand on it,” and once more hands were clasped over the tree trunk. “And you must promise, too, to believe everything I tell you. Some of it will seem pretty steep.” “Oh, well, you know, that fact is stranger than fiction, so don’t worry about that.”