—according to Harringay—there began a very remarkable struggle, Harringay splashing away with the red paint, and the picture wriggling about and wiping it off as fast as he put it on. 'Two masterpieces,' said the demon. 'Two indubitable masterpieces for a Chelsea artist's soul. It's a bargain?' Harringay replied with the paint brush.
For a few minutes nothing could be heard but the brush going and the spluttering and ejaculations of the Italian. A lot of the strokes he caught on his arm and hand, though Harringay got over his guard often enough. Presently the paint on the palette gave out and the two antagonists stood breathless, regarding each other. The picture was so smeared with red that it looked as if it had been rolling about a slaughterhouse, and it was painfully out of breath and very uncomfortable with the wet paint trickling down its neck. Still, the first round was in its favour on the whole. 'Think,' it said, sticking pluckily to its point, 'two supreme masterpieces—in different styles. Each equivalent to the Cathedral . . .'
'I know,' said Harringay, and rushed out of the studio and along the passage towards his wife's boudoir.
In another minute he was back with a large tin of enamel—Hedge Sparrow's Egg Tint, it was, and a brush. At the sight of that the artistic devil with the red eye began to scream. 'Three masterpieces—culminating masterpieces.'
Harringay delivered cut two across the demon, and followed with a thrust in the eye. There was an indistinct rumbling. 'Four masterpieces,' and a spitting sound.
But Harringay had the upper hand now and meant to keep it. With rapid, bold strokes he continued to paint over the writhing canvas, until at last it was a uniform field of shining Hedge Sparrow tint. Once the mouth reappeared and got as far as 'Five master—' before he filled it with enamel; and near the end the red eye
