out next year and try for the athletic team."
"Eh?" Dolf started, and squirmed his fat neck out of the tight clutch of his collar. "Why?"
"Because you could beat everybody at the coldwater throw. You must have practiced it a lot."
Dolf sniffed, sulked, and soon departed. It was the usual order of his going whenever the barb of criticism touched him.
Bert turned to the friend who remained. "What do you think of it, Bill?"
"I don't know. Dolf is right in a way . . . you're not selling something that people must have. You're selling what I think is called service. People can't get along without telephones any more—telephone service is too convenient. Maybe, if people find what you have is a big help, they'll never want to be without that, either."
"That's what Sam says," Bert cried, and felt his spirits soar. "How are you coming on with your drawing?"
Bill's eyes glowed. "Tom Woods sent some of my things to an artist in Philadelphia and asked him what he thought of them. The artist says they're promising: that I'm not a bad draughtsman and that I've got a sense of color values. Oh, I'll be doing the pictures for Tom Woods' books some day."
"That's great," said Bert, and meant it. "How do your folks feel about it?"
"All right now. At first my father didn't think
