"Samson," suggested the painter, when the dinner things had been

carried out and they were alone, "you are here for two purposes: first

to study painting; second, to educate and equip yourself for coming

conditions. It's going to take work, more work, and then some more work."

"I hain't skeered of work."

"I believe that. Also, you must keep out of trouble. You've got to

ride your fighting instinct with a strong curb."

"I don't 'low to let nobody run over me." The statement was not

argumentative; only an announcement of a principle which was not

subject to modification.

"All right, but until you learn the ropes, let me advise you."

The boy gazed into the fire for a few moments of silence.

"I gives ye my hand on thet," he promised.

At eleven o'clock the painter, having shown his guest over the

premises, said good-night, and went up-town to his own house. Samson

lay a long while awake, with many disquieting reflections. Before his

closed eyes rose insistently the picture of a smoky cabin with a

puncheon floor and of a girl upon whose cheeks and temples flickered

orange and vermilion lights. To his ears came the roar of elevated

trains, and, since a fog had risen over the Hudson, the endless night-

splitting screams of brazen-throated ferry whistles. He tossed on a

mattress which seemed hard and comfortless, and longed for a feather-bed.

"Good-night, Sally," he almost groaned. "I wisht I was back thar whar

I belongs." ... And Sally, more than a thousand miles away, was

shivering on the top of a stile with a white, grief-torn little face,

wishing that, too.

Meanwhile Lescott, letting himself into a house overlooking the Park,

was hailed by a chorus of voices from the dining-room. He turned and

went in to join a gay group just back from the opera. As he

thoughtfully mixed himself a highball, they bombarded him with questions.

"Why didn't you bring your barbarian with you?" demanded a dark-eyed

girl, who looked very much as Lescott himself might have looked had he

been a girl--and very young and lovely. The painter always thought of

his sister as the family's edition de luxe. Now, she flashed on

him an affectionate smile, and added: "We have been waiting to see him.

Must we go to bed disappointed?"

George stood looking down on them, and tinkled the ice in his glass.

"He wasn't brought on for purposes of exhibition, Drennie," he smiled.

"I was afraid, if he came in here in the fashion of his arrival--carrying

his saddlebags--you ultra-civilized folk might have laughed."




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