But when he was not thinking
of this he was cheerful enough. Besides he had the ability to simulate
cheerfulness even when he did not feel it. Because he did not
permanently belong to this world of day labor and because his position
which had been given him as a favor was moderately secure, he felt
superior to everything about him. He did not wish to show this feeling
in any way--was very anxious as a matter of fact to conceal it, but his
sense of superiority and ultimate indifference to all these petty
details was an abiding thought with him. He went to and fro carrying a
basket of shavings, jesting with "the village smith," making friends
with "Big John," the engineer, with Joseph, Malachi Dempsey, little
Jimmy Sudds, in fact anyone and everyone who came near him who would be
friends. He took a pencil one day at the noon hour and made a sketch of
Harry Fornes, the blacksmith, his arm upraised at the anvil, his helper,
Jimmy Sudds, standing behind him, the fire glowing in the forge. Fornes,
who was standing beside him, looking over his shoulder, could scarcely
believe his eyes.

"Wotcha doin'?" he asked Eugene curiously, looking over his shoulder,
for it was at the blacksmith's table, in the sun of his window that he
was sitting, looking out at the water. Eugene had bought a lunch box and
was carrying with him daily a delectable lunch put up under
Mrs. Hibberdell's direction. He had eaten his noonday meal and was
idling, thinking over the beauty of the scene, his peculiar position,
the curiosities of this shop--anything and everything that came into his
head.

"Wait a minute," he said genially, for he and the smith were already as
thick as thieves.

The latter gazed interestedly and finally exclaimed:

"W'y that's me, ain't it?"

"Yep!" said Eugene.

"Wat are you goin' to do with that wen you get through with it?" asked
the latter avariciously.

"I'm going to give it to you, of course."

"Say, I'm much obliged fer that," replied the smith delightedly. "Gee,
the wife'll be tickled to see that. You're a artist, ain't cher? I
hearda them fellers. I never saw one. Gee, that's good, that looks just
like me, don't it?"

"Something," said Eugene quietly, still working.

The helper came in.

"Watcha' doin'?" he asked.

"He's drawin' a pitcher, ya rube, watchye suppose he's doin'," informed
the blacksmith authoritatively. "Don't git too close. He's gotta have
room."

"Aw, whose crowdin'?" asked the helper ir