Hor. Clapboard, you’ve played me a shabby trick!
Clap. I couldn’t help it, sir; he thrust the money into my hands; said he was your legal guardian, and told me to send you home.
Hor. I’ll not go until my work is finished. Well, Clapboard, let him come; his stay shall be short.
Clap. What will you do?
Hor. That’s a question for consideration. Six months ago my father and myself differed with regard to my choice of a profession. He wished me to be a lawyer. I determined to be a painter. He was immovable in his choice. I was stubborn and sullen in mine. By mutual consent we dropped the discussion, agreeing not to renew it for a year. I was at once filled with the desire to produce something that would induce him to agree with me, believing that if I could show that I had talent, he would let me have my way. I immediately threw myself into the society of artists, and by that means gained an inkling of the rudiments of the profession, and I found I had some talent. But how to convince my father? I hit upon the idea of attempting a painting; something remarkable—a great allegorical national picture, “The Crowning of Liberty,” a magnificent idea! To carry it out, I required a studio and living models. I read your advertisement of “Bachelors’ Paradise;” came down, engaged a room, fitted it up, and looked around for models. But, alas! it was indeed a “bachelors’ paradise!” Not a female figure within three miles! Of course I was obliged to put up with the stock on hand; and with a soldier, a sailor, a tinker, and a tailor, as the only models to be obtained, I have been obliged to draw upon fancy to an alarming extent; and now it seems I am to be deprived of them by my meddling, inquisitive, good old daddy.
Clap. It’s too bad, Mr. Horace. I wish I could help you out of the scrape.
Hor. I wish you could. But as you can’t, suppose you go and hunt up my models, and let me get to work.
Clap. Certainly, sir; I’ll send them in at once.
[Exit, R.