"Yes, I always take a chair," said he. "It folds. It's in the leather case."
I, who remember the days when people went sketching with an immense French sketching-umbrella, a camp-chair, an easel, and a portfolio, looked with respect upon the leather case.
"Before we go up to the hill," said the artist, "don't you want me to show you the most stunning subject for a painting that I've found?"
Even Alexander rose to this. We followed our leader down past the old Junk Shop, in among the old houses at the water-front, and as we picked our way around the corner, the artist threw up his hands in despair.
"Oh, ye gods," we heard him say, "it's gone!"
We followed his tragic gaze out toward the harbor, expecting to find that an ancient landmark had been razed to the ground.
"What was it?" said Barbara anxiously. "Have they moved it somewhere else?"
"Yes," said the artist bitterly, "they've moved it somewhere else. It was the washing that was out on that line—the colors—all the accents—Portuguese as you can imagine—and they've taken it in!"
Alexander turned on his heel and left us to make our way back to Burial Hill. He sympathizes with his brother's sorrows when fishermen go down to their boats and change all the rigging the moment a marine sketch is half done; but he is not quite advanced enough to grieve because Portuguese laundry no longer flaps against the American blue.
"By the way," said the artist when we reached the Hill, "the lettering on these stones is something remarkably fine. Pemberton identifies it with Caslon lettering, Caslon the Elder, English typefounder in the sixteen hundreds. I '11 show you the article when we get home."