“Paperhangers.”
My assistant did belong, and the other four men working on the walls were furnished by the United States government. He looked rather foolish when I suggested that he call them off the job. He started to leave, when he turned around and asked:
“Why don’t you belong to the union?”
“I’ve never been asked,” I replied.
“Well, I ask you.”
“I accept,” I said, “but I will not lose money by joining, though. I am making forty dollars a day. What class can I go in?”
He departed.
Another day, I was up on my scaffold, when my assistant came up and whispered in my ear that there was a man down below who wanted to “lick” me. I called down to him and he said he would like a word with me. He was a burly Irishman, and I was not anxious to start anything with him.
“Did you do that picture?” he said, pointing to my figure of Melpomene, “and who is it?”
I told him that one of my relatives had been the model, and something in my manner made him see that I was telling the truth. Then he broke down and almost wept.