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"There isn't much difference," said Thornly, rising courteously. "I'm Cap'n Billy Morgan!" This statement appeared to interest Thornly immensely. "I'm glad to meet you," he answered. "Are ye a painter-man?" asked Billy. "I've been dubbed that occasionally." Thornly laughed. "What can I do for you?" "Did you ever have a modil?"
Blush, you brazen old beggar, blush! You've fallen in love with Madonna at first sight!" "Damn your laughing! Tell me who she is." "Tell you who she is? That's exactly what I can't do." "Why not? What do you mean? Does she belong to painter-man?" "Oh, fie, Mat!
Cynthia's eyes were on the orange line of the sunset over Coniston, but she laughed a little, indulgently. "Cynthy?" "Yes." "Er that Painter-man hain't such a bad fellow w-why didn't you ask him in to supper?" "I'll give you three guesses," said Cynthia, but she did not wait for them. "It was because I wanted to be alone with you. Milly's gone out, hasn't she?" "G-gone a-courtin'," said Jethro.
Bob is past-master of the art and goes it alone, without propping of any kind. He is the only man in Dordrecht, or Papendrecht, or the country round about, who can pull a boat and speak English. He says so, and I am forced not only to believe him, but to hire him. He wants it in advance, too having had some experience with "painter-man," he explains to Herr Teitsma.
The day after the completion of the picture a rugged figure in rawhide boots and coonskin cap approached Chester Perkins's house, knocked at the door, and inquired for the "Painter-man." It was Jethro. The "Painter-man" forthwith went out into the rain behind the shed, where a somewhat curious colloquy took place.
It was my turn for silence. "Does it die?" he reiterated. "You are a painter-man. Maybe you know." "No, I do not know," I confessed. "It is not life," he delivered himself dogmatically. "In life little girl die or get well. Something happen in life. In picture nothing happen. No, I do not understand pictures." His disappointment was patent.
"You see, it's impossible to treat you as an ordinary acquaintance." "But what do you think of me as a painter-man?" inquired the bewildering youth. Preparatory to entering the house she had taken off her gloves, and now one pinky-brown hand rested on the door lintel below him. "The question is," said she, "wasn't it really you that sent the roses, and don't you realize that you mustn't?"
It was never a proper setting for a rusty, out-of-doors painter-man, nor has such a fellow ever found himself complacently at ease there since the day its first banquet was spread for a score or so of fine-feathered epigram jinglers, fiddling Versailles gossip out of a rouge-and-lace Quesnay marquise newly sent into half-earnest banishment for too much king-hunting.
Then he began slowly to unwrap the newspaper from the bundle: there were five layers of it, but at length he disclosed a bolt of cardinal cloth. "Call this to mind, Cynthy?" "Yes," she answered with a smile. "H-how's this for the dress, Mr. Painter-man?" said Jethro, with a pride that was ill-concealed. The painter started up from his seat and took the material in his hands and looked at Cynthia.
On the morning of the Fourth, Cynthia drove to Brampton with the Painter-man, and when he perceived that she was dreaming, he ceased to worry her with his talk. He liked her dreaming, and stole many glances at her face of which she knew nothing at all.
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