Drinkwater’s Manners.
“Soon be able to walk all right; eh. Mr Manners?” asked Will, who with Josh had come up to the cottage.
“Soon, my lad? Yes, I think so,” said the artist, cheerily. “I was talking to Drinkwater here about painting his portrait; but he won’t hear a word of it. But I have got him in my mind’s eye all the same, and I shall paint him whether he likes it or not,” continued Mr Manners, as he looked laughingly at the boys, and then went on dipping his brush in the colours on the palette, rubbing it round and twiddling it in the pigment, while his landlord, pipe in mouth, gazed at him rather surlily. “Wouldn’t he make a fine picture? Eh?” And the artist leaned back in his chair and smiled good-humouredly first at Drinkwater and then at the boys, ending by shaking his head at his injured ankle, which was resting on another chair placed nearly in front of him.
“I don’t want my portrait painted, I tell ye,” said the man, gruffly.
“Hark at him!” said Manners. “I should have thought he would be pleased.”
“What’s the matter, Boil O?” asked Will. “Did you get out of bed the wrong way this morning?”
“No, sir,” said the man, shortly.
“Oh,” said Will.
“Leave the sulky bear alone,” put in Josh.
“Be quiet,” said Will to his companion. “I say, Boil O, old chap, when are you going to make me that fishing-rod you promised?”