I had your education and your command of language,” said his mother, whose command of language was all that anyone could wish—“I believe I could tell a pretty good story—so if you’ll write’em out,” she said, with another wink, “I’ll tell you what to write—and I’ll bet you—I’ll bet you,” said his mother, “that we could write a story that would beat most of these stories that I read, all to pieces! Yes, sir!” she said, pursing her lips firmly, and with an invincible conviction—“and I bet you people would buy that story and come to see that play!” she said. “Because I know what to tell’em and the kind of thing people are interested in hearing,” she said.
Then for a moment more she was silent and stared thoughtfully into the fire.
“Well,” she said slowly, “you may do it. You may do it, sure enough! Now, boy,” she said, levelling that powerful index finger toward him, “I want to tell you! Your grandfather, Tom Pentland, was a remarkable man—and if he’d had your education he’d a-gone far! And everyone who ever knew him said the same!… Oh! stories, poems, pieces in the paper—why, didn’t they print something of his every week or two!” she cried. “And that’s exactly where you get it,” said his mother. “—But, say, now,” she said in a persuasive tone, after a moment’s meditation, “I’ve been thinkin’—it just occurred to me—wouldn’t it be a good idea if you could find some work to do—I mean, get you a job somewheres of some light easy work that would give you plenty of time to do your writin’as you went on! Now, Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know!” his mother said in the bantering tone, “—and you might have to send that play around to several places before you found the one who could do it right for you! So while you’re waitin’,” said his mother persuasively, “why, wouldn’t it be a good idea if you got a little light newspaper work, or a job teachin’somewheres—pshaw! you could do it easy as falling off a log,” his mother said contemptuously. “I taught school myself before I got married to your papa, and I didn’t have a bit of trouble! And all the schoolin’I ever had—all the schoolin’that I ever had,” she cried impressively, “was six months one time in a little backwoods school! Now if I could do it, there’s one thing sure, with all your education you ought to be able to do it, too! Yes, sir, that’s the very thing!” she said. “I’d do it like a shot if I were you.”
He said nothing, and his mother sat there for a moment looking at the fire. Suddenly she turned, and her face had grown troubled and sorrowful
