“Practically,” replied his uncle. “He was born in Prague, but he has lived in this country for six years. True, he has not become a citizen because of the income-tax, but he is very patriotic and much prefers to sell his sculptures to Americans. But here we are at the sculptor’s.”
While talking, Rollo and his uncle had turned into a narrow doorway and mounted several flights of stairs. A tinkling bell was answered by a very hairy man who flung open the door before which they stood, crying, “Enter,” in a great voice.
“This is Mr. Pryzik,” said Uncle George, “and this is my nephew Rollo.”
The room was a large loft or storeroom lighted from above and while Mr. Pryzik and Uncle George chatted amiably together, Rollo looked about him eagerly noting many large groups of figures struggling and writhing in every conceivable posture. Some were covered with grey cloths which gave them a singularly ghost-like appearance.
“And what are you doing that is interesting?” asked Uncle George.
“Much,” replied the great artist. “I have some magnificent things under way, not completed, you understand, but well begun. Here, for instance, is a fountain for Mr. Rockefeller’s garden. It represents the struggle between crude and refined oil.”
“It is very exciting,” said Rollo. “Does Mr. Rockefeller like it?”
“I do not know,” said Mr. Pryzik. “I have written him seven letters on the subject, but I think he must be away on his vacation. And here is my masterpiece, the crowning group destined to be placed on the dome of the Palace of the League of Nations.”
“Oh!” said Rollo. “Where is it to be?”