“Oh, I have no time to make fishing-rods for boys,” said the man. “I have to work.”
“Look at him. How busy he is!” cried Will, with mock seriousness, while the artist made a vermilion smudge on his canvas as the ground plan of a sunset.
“No, sir, no time. Your father keeps me too busy.”
“Shame,” said Will. “Why, my father was saying only the other day that you had done so much good work for him all your life, that he would be very pleased to see you take things a bit easier now; so there.”
“’Tain’t true,” said the man.
“What!” cried Will, his face growing very red. “Don’t you believe what I say?”
“Not that exactly; but you don’t know all I’ve done—no more than Mr Willows does, nor Mr Manners.”
“Oh, doesn’t he?” said Will.
“I know you to be a very faithful and good friend, Drinkwater,” said the artist, making a dab, and then leaning back in his chair with his head on one side to judge the effect.
“Look at him,” said Will, in a whisper, to Josh. “He always wags his head like that when he’s at work painting. What does he do it for?”