The Great Gray Tor was surrounded by mists which were wreathed round it half-way up, while the dark summit peering out above the vapour looked like some vast head emerging from a miniature sea.
“It’s glorious,” said Will, as the two boys got away into the wild rugged country, clothed here and there with marshes where numbers of flowers were growing luxuriantly, their blooms making bright splashes of colour. “Fancy his wanting to paint all this, though!”
“Oh, I believe he would paint anything.”
“Well, he will soon have finished everything here. He’s done the mill, and the sunsets, and old Drinkwater’s cottage. There will be nothing left soon for him to daub.”
“Oh, yes; there will,” said Josh, knowingly, as they trudged on. “I heard my father talking about it. He said these artist chaps had a new way of looking at everything each day of their lives. So that means that he will want to paint everything all over again. Glad I am not an artist. I don’t like doing things over again.”
“Ho!” said Will. “I don’t care.”
“No more do I,” said Josh, “for I’m not an artist and I am not going to be one. But what are you staring at?”
“I’ve lost the way,” said Will, at last.
“Ditto,” said Josh. “Have you really? Shout. Mr Manners might hear.”
“You shout.”