eed Summers it
was--hit the key with the thoughtful remark:

"She cut the mustard," he said, "all right. I reckon they're goin'
to buy Lon's steer. I ain't right much on the parlyment'ry, but I
gather that's what the signs added up. But she seems to me, Lonny,
the argyment ran principal to grandfather, instead of paint. It's
reasonable calculatin' that you want to be glad you got the Briscoe
brand on you, my son."

That remarked clinched in Lonny's mind an unpleasant, vague
suspicion to the same effect. His reticence increased, and he
gathered grass from the ground, chewing it pensively. The picture
as a picture had been humiliatingly absent from the Senator's
arguments. The painter had been held up as a grandson, pure and
simple. While this was gratifying on certain lines, it made art
look little and slab-sided. The Boy Artist was thinking.

The hotel Lonny stopped at was near the Capitol. It was near to the
one o'clock dinner hour when the appropriation had been passed by
the Senate. The hotel clerk told Lonny that a famous artist from New
York had arrived in town that day and was in the hotel. He was on
his way westward to New Mexico to study the effect of sunlight upon
the ancient walls of the Zunis. Modern stones reflect light. Those
ancient building materials absorb it. The artist wanted this effect
in a picture he was painting, and was traveling two thousand miles
to get it.

Lonny sought this man out after dinner and told his story. The
artist was an unhealthy man, kept alive by genius and indifference
to life. He went with Lonny to the Capitol and stood there before
the picture. The artist pulled his beard and looked unhappy.

"Should like to have your sentiments," said Lonny, "just as they run
out of the pen."

"It's the way they'll come," said the painter man. "I took three
different kinds of medicine before dinner--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 pale man. "Do you carry a rabbit's foot?"

"No," said Lonny, "but it seems I had a grandfather. He's
considerable