Chapter I. In Search of the Western Tone

"What do you care, anyway?" asked Reeve-Howard philosophically. "It isn‘t as if you depended on the work for a living. Why worry over the fact that a mere pastime fails to be financially a success. You don‘t need to write--"

"Neither do you need to slave over those dry-point things," Thurston retorted, in none the best humor with his comforter "You‘ve an income bigger than mine； yet you toil over Grecian-nosed women with untidy hair as if each one meant a meal and a bed"

"A meal and a bed--that‘s good； you must think I live like a king."

"And I notice you hate like the mischief to fail, even though."

"Only I never have failed," put in Reeve-Howard, with the amused complacency born of much adulation.

Thurston kicked a foot-rest out of his way. "Well, I have. The fashion now is for swashbuckling tales with a haze of powder smoke rising to high heaven. The public taste runs to gore and more gore, and kid

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