go out and pray to be delivered from the
sin of arrogance, which you never will be. Bring your things up from
whatever place you're staying in, and we'll try to make this barn a
little more shipshape.'

'And then--oh, then,' said Dick, still capering, 'we will spoil the
Egyptians!'

CHAPTER IV

The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn,
When the smoke of the cooking hung gray:
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn,
And he looked to his strength for his prey.

But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away.

And he turned from his meal in the villager's close,
And he bayed to the moon as she rose.

--In Seonee.

'WELL, and how does success taste?' said Torpenhow, some three months
later. He had just returned to chambers after a holiday in the country.

'Good,' said Dick, as he sat licking his lips before the easel in the
studio.

'I want more,--heaps more. The lean years have passed, and I approve of
these fat ones.'

'Be careful, old man. That way lies bad work.'

Torpenhow was sprawling in a long chair with a small fox-terrier asleep
on his chest, while Dick was preparing a canvas. A dais, a background,
and a lay-figure were the only fixed objects in the place. They rose
from a wreck of oddments that began with felt-covered water-bottles,
belts, and regimental badges, and ended with a small bale of second-hand
uniforms and a stand of mixed arms. The mark of muddy feet on the dais
showed that a military model had just gone away. The watery autumn
sunlight was falling, and shadows sat in the corners of the studio.

'Yes,' said Dick, deliberately, 'I like the power; I like the fun; I
like the fuss; and above all I like the money. I almost like the
people who make the fuss and pay the money. Almost. But they're a queer
gang,--an amazingly queer gang!'

'They have been good enough to you, at any rate. Than tin-pot exhibition
of your sketches must have paid. Did you see that the papers called it
the "Wild Work Show"?'

'Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I wanted to; and, on my word,
I believe it was because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone
artist.

I should have got better prices if I worked my things on wool or
scratched them on camel-bone instead of using mere black and white
and colour. Verily, they are a queer gang, these people. Limited
isn't the word to describe 'em. I met a fellow the other day
who told me that it was impossible that