“Wotcha doin’?” he asked Eugene curiously, looking over his shoulder, for it was at the blacksmith’s table, in the sun of his window that he was sitting, looking out at the water. Eugene had bought a lunch box and was carrying with him daily a delectable lunch put up under Mrs. Hibberdell’s direction. He had eaten his noonday meal and was idling, thinking over the beauty of the scene, his peculiar position, the curiosities of this shop—anything and everything that came into his head.
“Wait a minute,” he said genially, for he and the smith were already as thick as thieves.
The latter gazed interestedly and finally exclaimed:
“W’y that’s me, ain’t it?”
“Yep!” said Eugene.
“Wat are you goin’ to do with that wen you get through with it?” asked the latter avariciously.
“I’m going to give it to you, of course.”
“Say, I’m much obliged fer that,” replied the smith delightedly. “Gee, the wife’ll be tickled to see that. You’re a artist, ain’t cher? I hearda them fellers. I never saw one. Gee, that’s good, that looks just like me, don’t it?”
“Something,” said Eugene quietly, still working.
The helper came in.
“Watcha’ doin’?” he asked.
“He’s drawin’ a pitcher, ya rube, watchye suppose he’s doin’,” informed the blacksmith authoritatively. “Don’t git too close. He’s gotta have room.”
“Aw, whose crowdin’?” asked the helper irritably. He realized at once that his superior was trying to shove him in the background, this being a momentous occasion. He did not propose that any such thing should happen. The blacksmith glared at him irritably but the progress of the art work was too exciting to permit of any immediate opportunities for hostilities, so Jimmy was allowed to crowd close and see.
“Ho, ho! that’s you, ain’t it,” he asked the smith curiously, indicating with a grimy thumb the exact position of that dignitary on the drawing.
“Don’t,” said the latter, loftily—”sure! He’s gotta have room.”
“An’ there’s me. Ho! Ho! Gee, I look swell, don’t I? Ho! ho!”
The little helper’s tushes were showing joyously—a smile that extended far about either side of his face. He was entirely unconscious of the rebuke administered by the smith.
“If you’re perfectly good, Jimmy,” observed Eugene cheerfully still working, “I may make a sketch of you, sometime!”
“Na! Will you? Go on! Say, hully chee. Dat’ll be fine, won’t it? Say, ho! ho! De folks at home won’t know me. I’d like to have a ting like dat, say!”
Eugene smiled. The smith was regretful. This dividing of honors was not quite all that it might be. Still his own picture was delightful. It looked exactly like the shop. Eugene worked until the whistle blew and the belts began to slap and the wheels to whirr. Then he got up.
“There you are, Fornes,” he said. “Like it?”
“Gee, it’s swell,” said the latter and carried it to the locker. He took it out after a bit though and hung it up over his bench on the wall opposite his forge, for he wanted everyone to see. It was one of the most significant events in his life. This sketch was the subject immediately of a perfect storm of discussion. Eugene was an artist—could draw pictures—that was a revelation in itself. Then this picture was so life-like. It looked like Fornes and Sudds and the shop. Everyone was interested. Everyone jealous. They could not understand how God had favored the smith in this manner. Why hadn’t Eugene sketched them before he did him? Why didn’t he immediately offer to sketch them now? Big John came first, tipped off and piloted by Jimmy Sudds.
“Say!” he said his big round eyes popping with surprise. “There’s some class to that, what? That looks like you, Fornes. Jinged if it don’t! An’ Suddsy! Bless me if there ain’t Suddsy. Say, there you are, kid, natural as life, damned if you ain’t. That’s fine. You oughta keep that, smith.”
“I intend to,” said the latter proudly.
Big John went back to his engine room regretfully. Next came Joseph Mews, his shoulders humped, his head bobbing like a duck, for he had this habit of nodding when he walked.
“Say, wot d’ye thinka that?” he asked. “Ain’t that fine. He kin drawr jist as good as they do in them there magazines. I see them there things in them, now an’ then. Ain’t that swell? Lookit Suddsy back in there. Eh, Suddsy, you’re in right, all right. I wisht he’d make a picture o’ us out there. We’re just as good as you people. Wats the matter with us, eh?”
“Oh, he ain’t goin’ to be bothered makin’ pitchers of you mokes,” replied the smith jestingly. “He only draws real ones. You want to remember that, Mews. He’s gotta have good people to make sketches of. None o’ your half-class plane-drivers and jig-saw operators.”
“Is that so? Is that so?” replied Joseph contemptuously, his love of humor spurred by the slight cast upon his ability. “Well if he was lookin’ for real ones he made a mistake wen he come here. They’re all up front. You don’t want to forget that, smith. They don’t live in no blacksmith’s shop as I ever seen it.”
“Cut it out! Cut it out!” called little Sudds from a position of vantage near the door. “Here comes the boss,” and Joseph immediately pretended to be going to the engine room for a drink. The smith blew up his fire as though it were necessary to heat the iron he had laid in the coals. Jack Stix came ambling by.
“Who did that?” he asked, stopping after a single general, glance and looking at the sketch on the wall.
“Mr. Witla, the new man,” replied the smith, reverently.
“Say, that’s pretty good, ain’t it?” the foreman replied pleasantly. “He did that well. He must be an artist.”
“I think he is,” replied the smith, cautiously. He was always eager to curry favor with the boss. He came near to his side and looked over his arm. “He done it here today at noon in about a half an hour.”
“Say, that’s pretty good now,” and the foreman went on his way, thinking.
If Eugene could do that, why was he here? It must be his run down condition, sure enough. And he must be the friend of someone high in authority. He had better be civil. Hitherto he had stood in suspicious awe of Eugene, not knowing what to make of him. He could not figure out just why he was here—a spy possibly. Now he thought that he might be mistaken.
“Don’t let him work too hard,” he told Bill and John. “He ain’t any too strong yet. He came up here for his health.”
He was obeyed in this respect, for there was no gain-saying the wishes of a foreman, but this open plea for consideration was the one thing if any which could have weakened Eugene’s popularity. The men did not like the foreman. He would have been stronger at any time in the affections of the men if the foreman had been less markedly considerate or against him entirely.
The days which followed were restful enough though hard, for Eugene found that the constant whirl of work which went on here, and of which he had naturally to do his share, was beneficial to him. For the first time in several years he slept soundly. He would don his suit of blue overalls and jumper in the morning a few minutes before the whistle blew at seven and from then on until noon, and from one o’clock until six he would carry shavings, pile lumber for one or several of the men in the yard, load or unload cars, help Big John stoke his boilers, or carry chips and shavings from the second floor. He wore an old hat which he had found in a closet at Mrs. Hibberdell’s, a faded, crumpled memory of a soft tan-colored sombrero which he punched jauntily to a peak and wore over one ear. He had big new yellow gloves which he kept on his hands all day, which were creased and frayed, but plenty good enough for this shop and yard. He learned to handle lumber nicely, to pile with skill, to “take” for Malachi Dempsey from the plane, to drive the jig-saw, and other curious bits. He was tireless in his energy because he was weary of thinking and hoped by sheer activity to beat down and overcome his notion of artistic inability—to forget that he believed that he couldn’t paint and so be able to paint again. He had surprised himself in these sketches he had made, for his first feeling under the old régime would have been that he could not make them. Here, because the men were so eager and he was so much applauded, he found it rather easy and, strange to say, he thought they were good.
At the home of Mrs. Hibberdell at night he would lay off all his working clothes before dinner, take a cold bath and don a new brown suit, which because of the assurance of this position he had bought for eighteen dollars, ready made. He found it hard to get off to buy anything, for his pay ceased (fifteen cents an hour) the moment he left the shop. He had put his pictures in storage in New York and could not get off (or at least did not want to take the time off) to go and sell any. He found that he could leave without question if he wanted no pay, but if he wanted pay and had a good reason he could sometimes be excused. His appearance about the house and yard after six-thirty in the evening and on Sundays was attractive enough. He looked delicate, refined, conservative, and, when not talking to someone, rather wistful. He was lonely and restless, for he felt terribly out of it. This house was lonely. As at Alexandria, before he met Frieda, he was wishing there were some girls about. He wondered where Frieda was, what she was doing, whether she had married. He hoped not. If life had only given him a girl like Frieda—so young, so beautiful! He would sit and gaze at the water after dark in the moonlight, for this was his one consolation—the beauty of nature—thinking. How lovely it all was! How lovely life was,—this village, the summer trees, the shop where he worked, the water, Joseph, little Jimmy, Big John, the stars. If he could paint again, if he could be in love again. In love! In love! Was there any other sensation in the world like that of being in love?