your father lived, where he must have left friends, and where, no doubt, you'll find an opening. I don't seek any gratitude, for of course you'll think me a beast; but I do ask you to pay it back when you are able. At any rate, that's all I can do. It might be different if I thought you a genius, Dodd; but I don't, and I advise you not to.”
“I think that was uncalled for, at least,” said I.
“I daresay it was,” he returned, with the same steadiness. “It seemed to me pertinent; and, besides, when you ask me for money upon no security, you treat me with the liberty of a friend, and it's to be presumed that I can do the like. But the point is, do you accept?”
“No, thank you,” said I; “I have another string to my bow.”
“All right,” says Myner. “Be sure it's honest.”
“Honest? honest?” I cried. “What do you mean by calling my honesty in question?”
“I won't, if you don't like it,” he replied. “You seem to think honesty as easy as Blind Man's Buff: I don't. It's some difference of definition.”
I went straight from this irritating interview, during which Myner had never discontinued painting, to the studio of my old master. Only one card remained for me to play, and I was now resolved to play it: I must drop the gentleman and the frock-coat, and approach art in the workman's tunic.
“Tiens, this little Dodd!” cried the master; and then, as his eye fell on my dilapidated clothing, I thought I could perceive his countenance to darken.
I made my plea in English; for I knew, if he were vain of anything, it was of his achievement of the island tongue. “Master,” said I, “will you take me in your studio again—but this time as a workman.”
“I sought your fazér was immensely reech,” said he.
I explained to him that I was now an orphan and penniless.
