"
Taken by surprise, Bibbs stammered. "What--what do--I--what--"
"If I'd let you do exactly what you had the whim for, what would you
do?"
Bibbs looked startled; then timidity overwhelmed him--a profound
shyness. He bent his head and fixed his lowered eyes upon the toe
of his shoe, which he moved to and fro upon the rug, like a culprit
called to the desk in school.
"What would you do? Loaf?"
"No, sir." Bibbs's voice was almost inaudible, and what little sound
it made was unquestionably a guilty sound. "I suppose I'd--I'd--"
"Well?"
"I suppose I'd try to--to write."
"Write what?"
"Nothing important--just poems and essays, perhaps."
"That all?"
"Yes, sir."
"I see," said his father, breathing quickly with the restraint he was
putting upon himself. "That is, you want to write, but you don't want
to write anything of any account."
"You think--"
Sheridan got up again. "I take my hat off to the man that can write
a good ad," he said, emphatically. "The best writin' talent in this
country is right spang in the ad business to-day. You buy a magazine
for good writin'--look on the back of it! Let me tell you I pay money
for that kind o' writin'.
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