“Look here, Sick-horse,” said Reubens—“I want you to go out and send a telegram for me.”
“Oh, no, you don’t, guv’nor.” The man smiled cunningly, laughing a husky laugh.
“Why not?”
“Well—yer see, guv’nor—when I’ve got my back on a oak chest—well—I know where I are.”
Reubens laughed loud and long:
“You ass,” roared he—“I’ve only got slippers on.”
“I’d rather not, guv’nor—if yer don’t mind.”
Fluffy Reubens gazed at him:
“Sick-horse,” said he, “don’t move. I’ll be back again in a minute. Stay like that for awhile—you look terrific in that light—sort of Judas Iscariot in the gloom wishing to God he hadn’t taken the money.”
He strolled off into the great studio and returned with a canvas and painting materials, and a large yellow official paper. He put the things on the floor, drew up a chair, and, shading his eyes with his hand, tried several views of the uncomfortable man.