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Updated: July 26, 2025
So, along Misery and Crippleshin, the men of the factions held their fire while the summer spent itself, and over the mountain slopes the leaves began to turn, and the mast to ripen. Lescott had sent a box of books, and Samson had taken a team over to Hixon, and brought them back. It was a hard journey, attended with much plunging against the yokes and much straining of trace chains.
"So, brother-to-be," he continued, "you have my permission to run along down-town, and feed your savage." "Beg pardon, sir!" The Lescott butler leaned close to the painter's ear, and spoke with a note of apology as though deploring the necessity of broaching such a subject. "But will you kindly speak with the Macdougal Street Police Station?" "With the what?"
The lieutenant had strolled in, and was contemplatively turning over in his hand the heavy forty-five-calibre Colt. "Some rod that!" he announced. "We don't get many like it here. Where did you breeze in from, young fellow?" "Thet's my business," growled Samson. Then, he added: "I'll be obleeged if ye'll send word ter Mr. George Lescott ter come an' bail me out."
The heavy clouds with their gossamer edgings had truth of tone and color. Then the experimenter came to the purple rim of mountain tops. There was no color for that on the palette, and he turned to the paint- box. "Here," suggested Lescott, handing him a tube of Payne's Gray: "is that what you're looking for?" Samson read the label, and decisively shook his head.
Lescott, tremendously interested in his experiment, began to fear that the boy's too great somberness of disposition would defeat the very earnestness from which it sprang. So, one morning, the landscape-maker went to the telephone, and called for the number of a friend whom he rightly believed to be the wisest man, and the greatest humorist, in New York.
About this zone of clarity were heaped masses of gold- rimmed and rose-edged clouds, still inky at their centers. "My God!" exclaimed the mountain boy abruptly. "I'd give 'most anything ef I could paint that." Lescott rose smilingly from his seat before the easel, and surrendered his palette and sheaf of brushes. "Try it," he invited.
After you've changed your method from rifle to shotgun, you'll bag your share, and you'll come back fitter for work. I must arrange it." "As to that," suggested Farbish, in the manner of one regarding the civilities, "Mr. South can run down to the Kenmore. I'll have a card made out for him." "Don't trouble," demurred Lescott, coolly, "I can fix that up."
"You seem to know the procedure," remarked the desk sergeant, with a smile. "Who is Mr. George Lescott, and where's his hang-out?" One of the arresting officers looked up from wiping with his handkerchief the sweat-band of his helmet. "George Lescott?" he repeated. "I know him. He's got one of them studios just off Washington Square. He drives down-town in a car the size of the Olympic.
By persuasion or force, Lescott must leave, and Samson must show himself to be the youth he had been thought, or the confessed and repudiated renegade. Those questions, to-day must answer. It was a difficult situation, and promised an eventful entertainment.
Lescott had been afraid that this initial experience would have an extinguishing effect on Samson's ambitions. He half-expected to hear the dogged announcement, "I reckon I'll go back home. I don't b'long hyar nohow." But no such remark came. One night, they sat in the cafe of an old French hostelry where, in the polyglot chatter of three languages, one hears much shop talk of art and literature.
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