“New boy, give me that,” said Mr Walkwell; “you are idling.”
I gave up the paper, feeling certain that either three cuts on the hand or some other punishment would be given to me. Mr Walkwell looked at the drawing, and then at me, and then said,—
“Shepard, I must report you to Mr Hostler.”
“Please, sir, don’t!” I said; “I’ll never idle again.”
At that instant Mr Hostler came into the room and said,—
“Well, Mr Walkwell, how are you? Are the boys doing well?”
“Very fairly, sir, very fairly; but I have to report the new boy to you.”
“What, Shepard? Ah, I’m afraid he is a failure. Come here, Shepard!”
I got up from my seat and walked up to where Hostler and Walkwell were standing, feeling ready to faint from nervousness.
“New boy Shepard, Mr Hostler, has told me a story. I asked him if he could draw, and he said ‘No,’ and I have now seen him out of his own head draw this sketch, sir. Look at the curve of that yacht’s sails; see the way he has fore-shortened her; look how she rests on the water. Why, for a man that’s a work of art. That boy is an artist, sir, and he told me he couldn’t draw.”