ng a cigar box, a copper kettle, and a heavy
volume of prints to fall with resoundings that must have carried to the
farthest studio. The old man faced him with the ecstatically deafened
look of a child amid exploding firecrackers. Then, as he discerned
Ewing's startled look, he explained:

"It's only a way the boys have every day at one o'clock. That Baldwin
boy started it by upsetting a musket and a brace of cavalry sabers. Then
Griggs followed with his armor. Then they all got to joining in. The
Chalmers boy pulls over his easel, and I understand there's been a
complaint from the people below; but it leaves us feeling rather
friendly, you know, and we're sure it's time to eat." He looked at Ewing
as if seeking to justify his complicity in so childish a performance.
And Ewing, reading the look, helped him to reload his sideboard for the
next day's disturbance. The copper kettle, book and cigar box--the
latter containing half a dozen lumps of coal--were replaced on a thin
board to which the string was attached.

Sydenham had meantime taken food from a curtained cabinet and was
munching before his easel. He waved the freedom of his larder to Ewing.
"There's bread and half a chicken, and pickles. There used to be ham,
but I forget if it's there yet. Anyway, it wasn't the most expensive
ham. I can't lose daylight by running out. The light changes while I
eat. I'm no Joshua. What did Griggs say of you--crazy boy, that Griggs.
Doing black and white, eh? Show me."

Ewing had helped himself to the bread and meat, and the two, eating
casually, crossed the hall to his own room. His drawings were at hand
and Sydenham looked at them as he munched, pausing critically now and
then, a bit of bread midway to his mouth.

"Not bad, not bad! If you can do that well you ought to do better. But
too many of you boys quit when you've learned to do something you can
sell. It's respectable, of course, but shoemakers do as much, and you've
no right to call yourselves artists for it. I'm afraid there isn't
anything made in the world that some one won't buy. And people _know_ if
their boots fit them, or if their bread is good, but they buy pictures
in the dark. There wouldn't be so many men calling themselves painters
if the public wasn't a better judge of sawed lumber or iron castings
than it is of pictures. Where did you study?"

"My father taught me drawing. He warned me to learn that first."

"Father, eh? Well--" His eyes rose from the