of line and go outside and draw a big full breath.” I said, “What can I do, I am broke.” “Who are you and what do you do? You are evidently not a banker.” “No,” I said, “I am an artist sent here from Oregon. Came to illustrate the Dempsey–Fitzsimmons fight, and I want to get back home with my pictures. The man in Portland told me if I got broke to draw on him, so that is why I have come to the bank.”
I then remembered I had a letter of recommendation from Sylvester Pennoyer, at that time governor of the State of Oregon, and known to the world at large as Grover Cleveland’s particular friend. I let the cashier look at the letter, which said that my father was an honest man and a good and loyal citizen, and that he hoped I would turn out as well. The cashier said that if my father were there he could get money on the letter, but he seemed to take an interest in me and somehow guessed that I hadn’t traveled much. I told him this was the first trip and the last I would ever take. He put on his hat and took me next door to the managing editor of one of the leading local papers, who, he said, was a great
