“Of course I’ll take it, Captain Burton,” answered the other with a careless laugh. “If you have the money with you I’ll take it naow ’stead of later.”
Burton threw the stick away and snapped his knife. “I’ll leave th’ money with Bill Smith, th’ harbor-master, an’ you kin leave yores there too. I’m sailin’ day after t’morrow.” Without another word, he turned and stalked up the wharf. Nickerson turned to his grinning gang. “That’s the joker we’re up against,” he said, “and, take it from me, he’ll be a tough one to beat. He has a good gang and an able vessel and he’s a good fish-killer. We’ll have to hustle some to get that money, bullies.”
A fisherman laughed. “You find th’ fish, Cap,” he said, “an’ you’ll find that ’hustle’ is aour middle name. Ira Burton’s ‘toadskins’ look mighty good t’ me!”
Joak had removed his dunnage down aboard the schooner and lived on her with some of the men. Donald wanted to do the same, but the Skipper told him to remain at the Nickerson home until he, himself, went aboard. Though he appreciated and enjoyed Judson’s kindness, yet he felt the lack of presentable clothes—especially when Ruth was about, for, by her actions and manner towards him, he felt instinctively that she looked upon him as a common Scotch sailor-boy of a social status far beneath her. She was neither unkind nor discourteous, but she treated him exactly as one would treat a hired man. This jarred McKenzie’s pride considerably, and when Ruth was around he refrained from conversation and confined himself to mere affirmative or negative answers when she addressed him.
The evening before sailing came, and Donald trudged up from the vessel clad in overalls and rubber boots, and grimy with loading stove coal. When he stepped up on the verandah of the Nickerson home, he spied Ruth seated before an artist’s easel and intent on painting a view of the harbor. Anything savoring of art appealed to Donald and he could not resist walking up and looking at the young lady’s effort. He felt instinctively that he would be snubbed. At the sound of his footsteps she turned around and gave him a careless glance such as one would give the milk-man or a pet cat.
“Good evening, Miss,” ventured Donald politely. “I see you are an artist.” “I do a little painting,” she replied curtly, continuing her work. For a space he watched her brushing in the colors, and his artistic eye detected many mistakes which were spoiling an otherwise creditable canvas. The girl evidently lacked training though she possessed ability. When she paused to squeeze some color on to a palette, Donald noticed that her fingers were long and well shaped—tokens of artistic temperament. “Well, what do you think of it?” she said without looking up and with a touch of patronizing tolerance in her words.
“I think it is very good in parts,” replied Donald quietly, “but—” “Yes, but—?” She was looking at him with arched eye-brows, and there was a trace of resentment in her voice seeming to infer “What do you know about art?”
McKenzie smiled. “I was going to say, if you’ll permit me, that your perspective is a little bit out,” he answered calmly. “Your schooner is too large for the shed in the fore-ground, and the detail on the further side of the harbor is too harsh. It should be toned down a bit—” He paused, noting the angry flush which was rising to her face. “Go on!” she snapped—almost rudely. “What else is wrong with it?” Her tone was irritable, and Donald, thinking of her conversation with her sister-in-law the day he and Joak arrived, proceeded without mercy, “Your sky is too much of a greeny-blue—you need more cobalt in it. Your water should reflect the sky more, and your clouds are somewhat heavy. A little dash of white and Naples yellow mixed in the centres would lift them out more. And, pardon me, for a sunny day, you should have worked more of a yellow tinge into all your colors—” He said no more, for with an indignant toss of her head and a sparkle of temper in her blue eyes that made her look very fascinating, she jumped up from the stool and throwing down her brush, stalked into the house, saying tartly, “If you’re so smart—finish it yourself and let us see if you are as good an artist as you are a critic!” Donald stared after her—somewhat pleased that he had stirred this self-possessed young beauty, and yet somewhat regretful at having offended her. Any unpleasant rifts in his relationships with any person always annoyed McKenzie. He would rather endure than inflict. He turned and scanned the painting, and the artist in him came to the fore. Throwing off his overall jacket, he sat down, picked up the palette and brushes, and started to work. Under his trained eyes and hands the crudities were painted out or toned down, and when Captain Jud came up from the wharf he had transformed the picture into something, which, while yet amateurish, betokened the handiwork of a true artist. “Aye, aye, painting something, are ye?” was the Skipper’s greeting.
“No,” answered the other. “I took the liberty of retouching your sister’s picture. It is her painting, and it is very good.” He rose and followed Judson into the house.