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Updated: April 30, 2025
It don't lack much of being a dish rag, now, if I'm any judge. Now! Great Scott!" He held it at arm's length and regarded it derisively. "Well, it was new two years ago," explained Chip, making an ineffectual grab at it. Cal threw it to him and came and sat down upon his heels to peer over Chip's arm at the magazine.
The critics stampeded, as they always did when the Countess began to talk. "You better let Dunk take it with him, Dell," was the parting advice of the Old Man. "You don't mind, do you?" The Little Doctor was visibly uneasy. "Mind what?" Chip's tone was one of elaborate unconsciousness. "Mind Dunk's selling the picture for you? Why should I? It's yours, you know."
Chip's hills were jagged, they were barren they were desolate; his pines were shuddering, lonely pines; for he had wandered alone among them and had caught the Message of the Wilderness. His sky was the cold, sinister sky of "The Last Stand" but it was colder, more sinister, for it was night. A young moon hung low in the west, its face half hidden behind a rift of scurrying snow clouds.
For the first fortnight, Chip's nervousness, not to say conscience, very much abated the pleasure of the many congratulations he received from his friends, and from hundreds of people whom he had never before known as his friends.
"Now a match, kid, and then you're done." Johnny placed the matches within easy reach, shoved a few magazines close to Chip's elbow, and stretched himself upon the floor with a book. Chip lay back against the cushions and smoked lazily, his eyes half closed, dreaming rather than thinking. The unfinished painting stood facing him upon its easel, and his eyes idly fixed upon it.
As the children were still in school, it was a quiet throng, elderly and sedate. Leaning on the balustrade, all faces turned one way, they fringed the promenade, leaving the broad, paved spaces empty. For this reason Chip's eye caught the more quickly at the other end of the terrace the figures of a man and a woman who stood back from the line of gazers.
Then it was that Chip's native chivalry and self- mastery were put to test. He was hungry for a solitary ride such as had, before now, drawn much of the lonely ache out of his heart and keyed him up to the life which he must live and which chafed his spirit more than even he realized.
"Chip's" Irish did not glance around, but kept striding down the middle of the road with his hands stuck deep in his pockets. "Don't you think you need help, amigo?" the Native Son insinuated craftily. "You can't talk to three girls at once; I could be hired to go along and take one off your hands. That should help some." "Like hell you will!" Irish retorted with characteristic bluntness.
After reiterating this resolve in several emphatic forms, Chip's spirits grew perceptibly lighter so much so that he rolled a fresh cigarette and finished the drawing in his hands, which demonstrated the manner in which a particularly snaky broncho had taken a fall out of Jack Bates in the corral that morning.
"Oh, perhaps a week," she said, lightly, and Chip's heart went heavy. "You may paint any kind of picture you like, but I'd rather you did something like 'The Last Stand' only better. And put your brand, as you call it, in one corner." "You won't sell it, will you?" The words slipped out before he knew. "No no, I won't sell it, for it won't be mine. It's for yourself this time."
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