Those coming after your work on the
Central Southern Syndicate appear to have done your business.
Central Southern Syndicate appear to have done your business.
Kipling - Poems
You've caught on here.
People like your work
immensely. I don't know why, but they do. They say you have a fresh
touch and a new way of drawing things. And, because they're chiefly
home-bred English, they say you have insight. You're wanted by half a
dozen papers; you're wanted to illustrate books. "
Dick grunted scornfully.
"You're wanted to work up your smaller sketches and sell them to the
dealers. They seem to think the money sunk in you is a good investment.
Good Lord! who can account for the fathomless folly of the public? "
"They're a remarkably sensible people. "
"They are subject to fits, if that's what you mean; and you happen to be
the object of the latest fit among those who are interested in what
they call Art. Just now you're a fashion, a phenomenon, or whatever you
please. I appeared to be the only person who knew anything about you
here, and I have been showing the most useful men a few of the sketches
you gave me from time to time.
Those coming after your work on the
Central Southern Syndicate appear to have done your business. You're in
luck. "
"Huh! call it luck! Do call it luck, when a man has been kicking about
the world like a dog, waiting for it to come! I'll luck 'em later on. I
want a place to work first. "
"Come here," said Torpenhow, crossing the landing. "This place is a big
box room really, but it will do for you. There's your skylight, or
your north light, or whatever window you call it, and plenty of room to
thrash about in, and a bedroom beyond. What more do you need? "
"Good enough," said Dick, looking round the large room that took up a
third of a top story in the rickety chambers overlooking the Thames. A
pale yellow sun shone through the skylight and showed the much dirt of
the place. Three steps led from the door to the landing, and three
more to Torpenhow's room. The well of the staircase disappeared into
darkness, pricked by tiny gas-jets, and there were sounds of men talking
and doors slamming seven flights below, in the warm gloom.
"Do they give you a free hand here?
immensely. I don't know why, but they do. They say you have a fresh
touch and a new way of drawing things. And, because they're chiefly
home-bred English, they say you have insight. You're wanted by half a
dozen papers; you're wanted to illustrate books. "
Dick grunted scornfully.
"You're wanted to work up your smaller sketches and sell them to the
dealers. They seem to think the money sunk in you is a good investment.
Good Lord! who can account for the fathomless folly of the public? "
"They're a remarkably sensible people. "
"They are subject to fits, if that's what you mean; and you happen to be
the object of the latest fit among those who are interested in what
they call Art. Just now you're a fashion, a phenomenon, or whatever you
please. I appeared to be the only person who knew anything about you
here, and I have been showing the most useful men a few of the sketches
you gave me from time to time.
Those coming after your work on the
Central Southern Syndicate appear to have done your business. You're in
luck. "
"Huh! call it luck! Do call it luck, when a man has been kicking about
the world like a dog, waiting for it to come! I'll luck 'em later on. I
want a place to work first. "
"Come here," said Torpenhow, crossing the landing. "This place is a big
box room really, but it will do for you. There's your skylight, or
your north light, or whatever window you call it, and plenty of room to
thrash about in, and a bedroom beyond. What more do you need? "
"Good enough," said Dick, looking round the large room that took up a
third of a top story in the rickety chambers overlooking the Thames. A
pale yellow sun shone through the skylight and showed the much dirt of
the place. Three steps led from the door to the landing, and three
more to Torpenhow's room. The well of the staircase disappeared into
darkness, pricked by tiny gas-jets, and there were sounds of men talking
and doors slamming seven flights below, in the warm gloom.
"Do they give you a free hand here?
