very remarkable. Unique, I suppose.”
“I should say so. That’s the very thing about Andy–he discriminates.
Discrimination’s the thief of time–forty-ninth Psalm; but that ain’t any
matter, it’s the honest thing, and it pays in the end.”
“Yes, he certainly is great in that feature, one is obliged to admit it;
but–now mind, I’m not really criticising–don’t you think he is just a
trifle overstrong in technique?”
The captain’s face was knocked expressionless by this remark. It
remained quite vacant while he muttered to himself–” Technique–
technique–polytechnique–pyro-technique; that’s it, likely-fireworks too
much color.” Then he spoke up with serenity and confidence, and said:
“Well, yes, he does pile it on pretty loud; but they all like it, you
know–fact is, it’s the life of the business. Take that No. 9, there,
Evans the butcher. He drops into the stoodio as sober-colored as
anything you ever see: now look at him. You can’t tell him from scarlet
fever. Well, it pleases that butcher to death. I’m making a study of a
sausage-wreath to hang on the cannon, and I don’t really reckon I can do
it right, but if I can, we can break the butcher.”
“Unquestionably your confederate–I mean your–your fellow-craftsman–
is a great colorist–”
“Oh, danke schon!–”
–“in fact a quite extraordinary colorist; a colorist, I make bold to
say, without imitator here or abroad–and with a most bold and effective
touch, a touch like a battering ram; and a manner so peculiar and
romantic, and extraneous, and ad libitum, and heart-searching, that–
that–he–he is an impressionist, I presume?”
“No,” said the captain simply, “he is a Presbyterian.”
“It accounts for it all–all–there’s something divine about his art,–
soulful, unsatisfactory, yearning, dim hearkening on the void horizon,
vague-murmuring to the spirit out of ultra-marine distances and far-
sounding cataclysms of uncreated space–oh, if he–if, he–has he ever
tried distemper?”
The captain answered up with energy:
“Not if he knows himself! But his dog has, and–”
“Oh, no, it vas not my dog.”
“Why, you said it was your dog.”
“Oh, no, gaptain, I–”
“It was a white dog, wasn’t it, with his tail docked, and one ear gone,
and–”
“Dot’s him, dot’s him!–der fery dog. Wy, py Chorge, dot dog he would
eat baint yoost de same like–”
“Well, never mind that, now–‘vast heaving–I never saw such a man. You
start him on that dog and he’ll dispute a year. Blamed if I haven’t seen
him keep it up a level two hours and a half.”
“Why captain!” said Barrow. “I guess that must be hearsay.”
“No, sir, no hearsay about it–he disputed with me.
“I don’t see how you stood it.”
“Oh, you’ve got to–if you run with Andy. But it’s the only fault he’s
got.”
“Ain’t you afraid of acquiring it?”
“Oh, no,” said the captain, tranquilly, “no danger of that, I reckon.”
The artists presently took their leave. Then Barrow put his hands on
Tracy’s shoulders and said:
“Look me in the eye, my boy. Steady, steady. There–it’s just as I
thought–hoped, anyway; you’re all right, thank goodness. Nothing the
matter with your mind. But don’t do that again–even for fun. It isn’t
wise. They wouldn’t have believed you if you’d been an earl’s son.
Why, they couldn’t–don’t you know that? What ever possessed you to take
such a freak? But never mind about that; let’s not talk of it. It was a
mistake; you see that yourself.”
“Yes–it was a mistake.”
“Well, just drop it out of your, mind; it’s no harm; we all make them.
Pull your courage together, and don’t brood, and don’t give up. I’m at
your back, and we’ll pull through, don’t you be afraid.”
When he was gone, Barrow walked the floor a good while, uneasy in his
mind. He said to himself, “I’m troubled about him. He never would have
made a break like that if he hadn’t been a little off his balance.
But I know what being out of work and no prospect ahead can do for a man.
First it knocks the pluck out of him and drags his pride in the dirt;
worry does the rest, and his mind gets shaky. I must talk to these