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"Why, it's like jest any extraordinary common-sense room now, that anybody might have, with them pictures all put away, an' his easel hid behind the door, an' not a brush or a cube of paint in sight an' him dolin' out vinegar an' molasses down to that old store. I tell you it made me sick, Mr. Jenkins, sick!" "Yes, yes, that's so," murmured Mr. Jenkins, vaguely. "Well, it did.
"'That's just what he's done and South American freights higher than we'll live to see them again. He's laid her up to paint her to paint her to paint her! says the little clerk, dancin' like a hen on a hot plate. 'Five thousand ton o' potential freight rottin' in drydock, man; an' he dolin' the paint out in quarter-pound tins, for it cuts him to the heart, mad though he is.
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