“Oh, yes, I see. But something besides my education has got to be supplemented now, I reckon.”
“What are you going to do?”
There was an almost imperceptible hesitation; then, a little shortly, came the answer:
“Hit the trail for Grand Opera, and bring up, probably—in vaudeville.”
Calderwell smiled appreciatively.
“You can sing like the devil,” he admitted.
“Thanks,” returned his friend, with uplifted eyebrows. “Do you mind calling it 'an angel'—just for this occasion?”
“Oh, the matinée-girls will do that fast enough. But, I say, Arkwright, what are you going to do with those initials then?”
“Let 'em alone.”
“Oh, no, you won't. And you won't be 'Mary Jane,' either. Imagine a Mary Jane in Grand Opera! I know what you'll be. You'll be 'Señor Martini Johnini Arkwrightino'! By the way, you didn't say what that 'M. J.' really did stand for,” hinted Calderwell, shamelessly.
“'Merely Jokes'—in your estimation, evidently,” shrugged the other. “But my going isn't a joke, Calderwell. I'm really going. And I'm going to work.”
“But—how shall you manage?”
“Time will tell.”
Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his chair.
“But, honestly, now, to—to follow that trail of yours will take money. And—er—” a faint red stole to his forehead—“don't they have—er—patrons for these young and budding geniuses? Why can't I have a hand in this trail, too—or maybe you'd call it a foot, eh? I'd be no end glad to, Arkwright.”
“Thanks, old man.” The red was duplicated this time above the brown silky beard. “That was mighty kind of you, and I appreciate it; but it won't be necessary. A generous, but perhaps misguided bachelor uncle left me a few thousands a year or so ago; and I'm going to put them all down my throat—or
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