“Oh,” says I, “it is, eh? I thought art was daubin’ paint on a piece of cloth, and then puttin’ a gold frame around it.”
“Anythin’s art,” says Mark, “that hain’t good for nothin’ but to look at.”
“Then,” says I, “I hain’t art.”
“No,” says Mark, “but you come m-mighty clost to it.”
“Where d’you s’pose the Duke is?” says I, changing the subject because I couldn’t see any use talking about art any more. I wasn’t interested in art. “I don’t see no guards,” says I, “and I don’t see the Duke.”
But just then a kid came around the corner of the house. He was just an ordinary-looking kid, though it didn’t seem like he was enjoying himself very much. He sat down alongside the stone dog and propped his head up in his hands and stared at the ground.
“L-lonesome,” says Mark, sympathetic-like.
“Let’s go in and play with him,” says I.
“Sure,” says Mark, sarcastic, “and s-spill the whole mess of beans. What would the Knight With the Black Gauntlets do if he saw us playin’ with that Duke, eh? He wouldn’t suspect any thin’, would he?”
“Let’s git him over here, then,” says I.