“Gray paper—that’s it!” cried Joe. “Cool gray for gray days, and a yellow gray for hot sunlight. Can’t you see, old man, that shadows are transparent and that everything else in hot sunlight is opaque?”
As no one had yet touched the ink-bottle, Joe kicked it into the corner.
“When is this miracle of yours going to happen?” asked Atwater, picking up the ruined water-color disconsolately and jamming it into the waste-paper basket.
“Happen!” exclaimed Joe. “Why—just as soon as I can draw well enough and can get used to handling gauche instead of the skimmed milk I’ve been using.”
“You can draw well enough now, Joe,” returned Atwater—“when you want to.” He paused, grew a little red, half turned away, then wheeling around, added seriously: “See here, Joe, I’m not the nagging kind, and you know it—but—you know what we’ve got to do as well as I do, and the time that’s left us to do it in. I’m doing my best to get the Jones job in before the 15th, specifications and all. Well—you don’t seem to be getting on to the job lately, that’s all. I—I hate to say this and—but, you see how it is, don’t you? We’ve got to hustle—and there’s another thing I might just as well say,” he went on, clearing his throat and twirling his HB lead pencil nervously in his active hand, a hand as precise as a machine, and as timid as a woman’s. “You’re not the same as you used to be—you’ve changed—you’ve got to dreaming—well—ever since the Fords moved in.”
Joe gripped him heartily by both shoulders. “Good old Sammy,” said he. “Oh, you’re right—I don’t deny it. I’m goin’ to brace up and help—and—and hustle. There—feel better?”
The clock above them struck twelve-thirty with a wheezy dang.
“Time to eat!” exclaimed Joe, with a persuasive twinkle. “Poor old Sammy! See here, what we need is food and a change of scene. What do you say to going to Old Tom’s for luncheon—eh? It’ll do you good—my treat, Sammy, and don’t you dare say no, because if you do—” he grinned—“I’m going to pick you up and carry you there, if I have to walk up Broadway with you on my back. Is it a go?”
Sam hesitated. “Hadn’t we better go back to the Pioneer Dairy,” he ventured. “It’s cheaper, Joe, and the stuff isn’t so bad.”
“It’s abominable,” protested Joe. “I’m tired of the kind that mother used to make. I’ve got enough of skimmed milk, I tell you, and seeing that sour old maid with the asthma pass the crullers. No, sir—what we want is some man’s food and a good pint of ale in us—in a snug place that’s alive.”