ng play of dolphins and a
Neptune or so reining in webby-footed sea-horses, and Arion with his
harp high atop of them. It was twenty-three foot long, and maybe nine
foot deep--painted and gilt.'

'It must ha' just about looked fine,' said Mr. Springett.

'That's the curiosity of it. 'Twas bad--rank bad. In my conceit I must
needs show it to Torrigiano, in the chapel. He straddles his legs;
hunches his knife behind him, and whistles like a storm-cock through a
sleet-shower. Benedetto was behind him. He were never far apart, I've
told you.

'"That is pig's work," says our Master. "Swine's work. You make any more
such things, even after your fine Court suppers, and you shall be sent
away."

'Benedetto licks his lips like a cat. "Is it so bad then, Master?" he
says. "What a pity!"

'"Yes," says Torrigiano. "Scarcely _you_ could do things so bad. I will
condescend to show."

'He talks to me then and there. No shouting, no swearing (it was too bad
for that); but good, memorable counsel, bitten in slowly. Then he sets
me to draft out a pair of iron gates, to take, as he said, the taste of
my naughty dolphins out of my mouth. Iron's sweet stuff if you don't
torture her, and hammered work is all pure, truthful line, with a reason
and a support for every curve and bar of it. A week at that settled my
stomach handsomely, and the Master let me put the work through the
smithy, where I sweated out more of my foolish pride.'

'Good stuff is good iron,' said Mr. Springett. 'I done a pair of lodge
gates once in Eighteen hundred Sixty-three.'

'Oh, I forgot to say that Bob Brygandyne whipped away my draft of the
ship's scroll-work, and would not give it back to me to re-draw. He said
'twould do well enough. Howsoever, my lawful work kept me too busied to
remember him. Body o' me, but I worked that winter upon the gates and
the bronzes for the tomb as I'd never worked before! I was leaner than a
lath, but I lived--I lived then!' Hal looked at Mr. Springett with his
wise, crinkled-up eyes, and the old man smiled back.

'Ouch!' Dan cried. He had been hollowing out the schooner's after-deck,
the little gouge had slipped and gashed the ball of his left thumb,--an
ugly, triangular tear.

'That came of not steadying your wrist,' said Hal calmly. 'Don't bleed
over the wood. _Do_ your work with your heart's blood, but no need to
let it show.' He rose and peered into a corner of the loft.

Mr. Springett had risen too, and swept down