"Not much," affirmed the other, with conviction. "Let the men with little souls spend their thought on that."
The artist watched his protégé narrowly as they took their places against the forward rail of the ferry-deck, and the boat stood out into the crashing water traffic of North River. What Samson saw must be absolutely bewildering. Ears attuned to hear a breaking twig must ache to this hoarse shrieking of whistles. To the west, in the evening's fading color, the sky-line of lower Manhattan bit the sky with its serried line of fangs.
Yet, Samson leaned on the rail without comment, and his face told nothing. Lescott waited for some expression, and, when none came, he casually suggested:
"Samson, that is considered rather an impressive panorama over there.
What do you think of it?"
"Ef somebody was ter ask ye ter describe the shape of a rainstorm, what would ye say?" countered the boy.
Lescott laughed.
"I guess I wouldn't try to say."
"I reckon," replied the mountaineer, "I won't try, neither."
"Do you find it anything like the thing expected?" No New Yorker can allow a stranger to be unimpressed with that sky-line.
"I didn't have no notion what to expect." Samson's voice was matter-of- fact. "I 'lowed I'd jest wait and see."