been
looking for you all day in the directories and art galleries. The
free-lunch man on the corner told me where you were, quick. I was
sure you'd be painting pictures yet."

Keogh glanced about the studio with the shrewd eye of a connoisseur
in business.

"Yes, you can do it," he declared, with many gentle nods of his head.
"That big one in the corner with the angels and green clouds and
band-wagon is just the sort of thing we want. What would you call
that, Carry--scene from Coney Island, ain't it?"

"That," said White, "I had intended to call 'The Translation of
Elijah,' but you may be nearer right than I am."

"Name doesn't matter," said Keogh, largely; "it's the frame and the
varieties of paint that does the trick. Now, I can tell you in a
minute what I want. I've come on a little voyage of two thousand
miles to take you in with me on a scheme. I thought of you as soon as
the scheme showed itself to me. How would you like to go back with
me and paint a picture? Ninety days for the trip, and five thousand
dollars for the job."

"Cereal food or hair-tonic posters?" asked White.

"It isn't an ad."

"What kind of a picture is it to be?"

"It's a long story," said Keogh.

"Go ahead with it. If you don't mind, while you talk I'll just keep
my eye on these sausages. Let 'em get one shade deeper than a Vandyke
brown and you spoil 'em."

Keogh explained his project. They were to return to Coralio, where
White was to pose as a distinguished American portrait painter who
was touring in the tropics as a relaxation from his arduous and
remunerative professional labours. It was not an unreasonable hope,
even to those who had trod in the beaten paths of business, that an
artist with so much prestige might secure a commission to perpetuate
upon canvas the lineaments of the president, and secure a share of
the _pesos_ that were raining upon the caterers to his weaknesses.

Keogh had set his price at ten thousand dollars. Artists had been
paid more for portraits. He and White were to share the expenses of
the trip, and divide the possible profits. Thus he laid the scheme
before White, whom he had known in the West before one declared for
Art and the other became a Bedouin.

Before long the two machinators abandoned the rigour of the bare
studio for a snug corner of a cafe. There they sat far into the
night, with old envelopes and Keogh's stub of blue pencil between
them.

At twelve o'clock White doubled up in his