by the tablespoonful. The taste still lingers. I am primed for telling the truth. You want to know if the picture is, or if it isn’t?”
“Right,” said Lonny. “Is it wool or cotton? Should I paint some more or cut it out and ride herd a-plenty?”
“I heard a rumour during pie,” said the artist, “that the state is about to pay you two thousand dollars for this picture.”
“It’s passed the Senate,” said Lonny, “and the House rounds it up to-morrow.”
“That’s lucky,” said the paleman. “Do you carry a rabbit’s foot?”
“No,” said Lonny, “but it seems I had a grandfather. He’s considerable mixed up in the colour scheme. It took me a year to paint that picture. Is she entirely awful or not? Some says, now, that that steer’s tail ain’t badly drawed. They think it’s proportioned nice. Tell me.”
The artist glanced at Lonny’s wiry figure and nut-brown skin. Something stirred him to a passing irritation.
“For Art’s sake, son,” he said, fractiously, “don’t spend any more money for paint. It isn’t a picture at all. It’s a gun. You hold up the state with it, if you like, and get your two thousand, but don’t get in front of any more canvas. Live under it. Buy a couple of hundred ponies with the money—I’m told they’re that cheap—and ride, ride, ride. Fill your lungs and eat and sleep and be happy. No more pictures. You look healthy. That’s genius. Cultivate it.” He looked at
