“Poor old chap!” said Will. “Well, I suppose they were not very good.”
“That’s what father thinks,” said Josh.
“How does he know?” said Will.
“Oh, he says that if they were good they wouldn’t all come back.”
“Well, RA goes on painting them all the same,” said Will. “Coo-ee! Mr Manners, ahoy!”
This time the artist looked up, rose from his seat, stretched himself, and waved his palette in the air.
“Hollo, young ’uns,” he said, as they came up; “off fishing again?”
“Yes,” said Will, “and I’ve brought your rod.”
“Very much obliged to you,” said the artist, sarcastically. “But not this time, thank you; I would rather paint.”
“Oh—oh!” cried Will. “Do come! I’ve brought your basket too.”