“By all means,” was the reply; “tell me if you succeed—and I'll borrow a sovereign of you.”
Out went Robinson into the town of Sydney. He got into a respectable street, and knocked at a good house with a green door. He introduced himself to the owner as a first-rate painter and engrainer, and offered to turn this door into a mahogany, walnut, oak or what-not door. “The house is beautiful, all but the door,” said sly Tom; “it is blistered.”
“I am quite content with it as it is,” was the reply in a rude, supercilious tone.
Robinson went away discomfited; he went doggedly down the street begging them all to have their doors beautified, and wincing at every refusal. At last he found a shopkeeper who had no objection, but doubted Robinson's capacity. “Show me what you can do,” said he slyly, “and then I'll talk to you.”
“Send for the materials,” replied the artist, “and give me a board and I'll put half a dozen woods on the face of it.”
“And pray,” said the man, “why should I lay out my money in advertising you? No! you bring me a specimen, and if it is all right I'll give you the job.”
“That is a bargain,” replied Robinson, and went off. “How hard they make honesty to a poor fellow,” muttered he bitterly, “but I'll beat them,” and he clinched his teeth.
He went to a pawnbroker and pawned the hat off his head—it was a new one; then for a halfpenny he bought a sheet of brown paper and twisted it into a workman's cap; he bought the brushes and a little paint and a little varnish, and then he was without a penny again. He went to a wheelwright's and begged the loan of a small valueless worm-eaten board he saw kicking about, telling him what it was for. The wealthy wheelwright eyed him with scorn. “Should I ever see it again?” asked he ironically.
“Keep it for your coffin,” said Robinson fiercely, and passed on. “How hard they make honesty to a poor fellow! I was a fool for asking for it when I might have taken it. What was there to hinder me? Honesty, my lass, you are bitter.”
Presently he came to the suburbs and there was a small wooden cottage. The owner, a common laborer, was repairing it as well as he could. Robinson asked him very timidly if he could spare a couple of square feet off a board he was sawing. “What for?” Robinson showed his paintpot and brushes, and told him how he was at a stand-still for want of a board. “It is only a loan of it I ask,” said he.