At the same time he did some hurried, nervous things that had a popular charm, and that sold in plaster reproductions, to the profit of another.

Beaton justly despised the popular charm in these, as well as in the paintings he sold from time to time; he said it was flat burglary to have taken money for them, and he would have been living almost wholly upon the bounty of the old tombstone-cutter in Syracuse if it had not been for the syndicate letters which he supplied to Fulkerson for ten dollars a week.
They were very well done, but he hated doing them after the first two or three, and had to be punched up for them by Fulkerson, who did not cease to prize them, and who never failed to punch him up.

Beaton being what he was, Fulkerson was his creditor as well as patron; and Fulkerson being what he was, had an enthusiastic patience with the elusive, facile, adaptable, unpractical nature of Beaton.

He was very proud of his art-letters, as he called them; but then Fulkerson was proud of everything he secured for his syndicate.

The fact that he had secured it gave it value; he felt as if he had written it himself.
One art trod upon another's heels with Beaton.