‘That’s my portrait atop,’ Dennis replied; ‘d’ye think it’s like?’
‘Why—it’s a little too handsome,’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Who did it? You?’
‘I!’ repeated Dennis, gazing fondly on his image. ‘I wish I had the talent. That was carved by a friend of mine, as is now no more. The very day afore he died, he cut that with his pocket-knife from memory! “I’ll die game,” says my friend, “and my last moments shall be dewoted to making Dennis’s picter.” That’s it.’
‘That was a queer fancy, wasn’t it?’ said Mr Tappertit.
‘It WAS a queer fancy,’ rejoined the other, breathing on his fictitious nose, and polishing it with the cuff of his coat, ‘but he was a queer subject altogether—a kind of gipsy—one of the finest, stand-up men, you ever see. Ah! He told me some things that would startle you a bit, did that friend of mine, on the morning when he died.’
‘You were with him at the time, were you?’ said Mr Tappertit.
‘Yes,’ he answered with a curious look, ‘I was there. Oh! yes certainly, I was there. He wouldn’t have gone off half as comfortable without me. I had been with three or four of his family under the same circumstances. They were all fine fellows.’
‘They must have been fond of you,’ remarked Mr Tappertit, looking at him sideways.
‘I don’t know that they was exactly fond of me,’ said Dennis, with a little hesitation, ‘but they all had me near ‘em when they departed. I come in for their wardrobes too. This very handkecher that you see round my neck, belonged to him that I’ve been speaking of—him as did that likeness.’
Mr Tappertit glanced at the article referred to, and appeared to think that the deceased’s ideas of dress were of a peculiar and by no means an expensive kind. He made no remark upon the point, however, and suffered his mysterious companion to proceed without interruption.