bin' away
industrious.

You might know it would be either Mrs. Robert or Vee who would pick 'em
up and find out the whole story. As a matter of fact it was both, for
they were drivin' out after ferns or something when they saw the Beans
perched on a stone wall tryin' to unbutton a can of sardines with a
palette knife and not having much success. You know the kind of people
who either lose the key to a sardine can or break off the tab and then
gaze at it helpless! That was them to the life.

And when Mrs. Robert finds how they're livin' chiefly on dry groceries
and condensed milk, so's to have more to blow in on dinky little tubes
of Chinese white and Prussian blue and canvas, of course she has to get
busy slippin' 'em little trifles like a dozen fresh eggs, a mess of
green peas and a pint of cream now and them. She follows that up by
havin' 'em come over for dinner frequent. Vee has to do her share too,
chippin' in a roast chicken or a cherry pie or a pan of doughnuts, so
between the two the Hallam Beans were doin' fairly well. Hallam, he
comes back generous by wishin' on each of 'em one of his masterpieces.
The thing he gives us Vee hangs up over the livin' room mantelpiece,
right while he's there.

"Isn't that perfectly stunning, Torchy?" she demands.

"I expect it is," says I, squintin' at it professional, "but--but just
what is it supposed lo be?" And I turns inquirin' to F. Hallam.

"Why," says he, "it is a study of afternoon light on a group of willows.
We are not Futurists, you see; Revertists, rather. Our methods--at least
mine--are frankly after the Barbizon school."

"Yeauh!" says I, noddin' wise. "I knew one once who could do swell
designs on mirrors with a piece of soap."

"I beg pardon," says Hallam. "One what?"

"A barber's son," says I. "I got him a job as window decorator, too."

But somehow after that Hallam sort of shies talkin' art with me. A
touchy party, F. Hallam. The least little thing would give him the
sulks. And even when he was feelin' chipper his face was long enough. As
a floorwalker in a mournin' goods shop he'd be a perfect fit. But you
couldn't suggest anything that sounded like real work to Hallam. He
claims that he was livin' for his art. Maybe so, but I'll be hanged if
he was livin' on it. I got to admit, though, that he dressed the part
fairly well; for in that gray flannel shirt and the old velvet coat and
the flowin' black tie, and with all that stringy, mud-colored hair