He could certainly talk. The upshot of the evening was that I got the address of Pendleton's studio -- or rather, of the studio in which he gave his classes, for he didn't work there himself -- and joined the life class, which met every Tuesday and Thursday from ten to twelve in the morning. It was an awkward hour, but I didn't have to punch any time clock, and it only meant that sometimes I had to stay a couple of hours later at the drawing board to finish up a job. After a short time, both George and Donald joined the class with me so they wouldn't feel lonely, and we used to hang a sign on the door of the Brush-off reading ``out to work.'' It was mostly for the benefit of the mailman, because hardly anybody else ever visited us.

In a way, Askington was right. ``Stimulating'' was the word for it. I don't know that it was always as rewarding as I had expected it to be. Partly, it was because Pendleton himself wasn't what I anticipated. I had come prepared to worship at the feet of this classic, and he turned out to be a rather bitter old man who smelled of dead cigars.

No, that isn't quite fair. Actually, there was a lot of force in him, which is why I kept on in that class instead of quitting after a week.