“In a way,” and Hanlon smiled; “I paint signs—and I try to do them artistically.”
“Signs! How dull for you—after your exciting performances!”
“Not so very dull,” interrupted Aunt Abby. “I know about the signs Mr. Hanlon paints! They’re bigger’n a house! They’re—why, they’re scenery—don’t you know?—like you see along the railroad—I mean along the meadows when you’re riding in the cars.”
“Oh, scenic advertising,” observed Fleming Stone. “And signs on the Palisades—”
“Not on the natural scenery,” laughed Hanlon. “Though I’ve been tempted by high rocks or smooth-sided crags.”
“Are you a steeple-jack?” asked Fibsy, his eyes sparkling; “can you paint spires and things?”
“No;” and Hanlon looked at the boy, regretfully. “I can’t do that. I’m no climber. I make the signs and then they’re put where they belong by other workmen.”
“Oh,” and Fibsy looked disappointed at not finding the daring hero he sought for.
“I must not presume further on your kindness, Mrs. Embury,” Hanlon said, with an attempt at society jargon, “I merely called in for a minute. Mr. Hendricks, are you going my way? I want to see you about that sign-”
“No, Hanlon—sorry, but I’m not going now,” and Hendricks shook his head. “I’m here for the evening.”