“Well, sir, I’ll try again. Perhaps I can manage it next time. I was a bit on the other night, and I did get it pretty warm when I went home. I’ll try and feel like I did then, next time I’m a settin’.”
“Yes, do,” said Dale, who kept on with his work. “Ah, that’s better. Well, you were going to say something. Is anything wrong?”
“Well, sir, I’m only a poor model, and it ain’t for me to presoom.”
“Lookers-on see most of the game, Jaggs. What is it?”
“Well, sir, I was looking at Jupiter’s corpus.”
“Eh? See something out of drawing?”
“No, sir; your nattomy’s all right, of course. Never see it wrong. You’re splendid on ’ticulation, muskle, and flesh. But that’s Sam Spraggs as sat for the body, wasn’t it?”
“Yes; I’ve fitted it to your head.”
“Well, sir, not to presoom, do you feel sure as it wouldn’t be more god-like, more Jupitery as you may say, if you let me set, painted that out, and give the head the proper body. Be more nat’ral like, wouldn’t it?”
“No. What’s the matter with that?—the composition of a more muscular man with your head is, I think, excellent.”