“I—I’ve already been to Drücker,” Matt admitted. “A fellow at Grainger’s told me about him. But he won’t look at my work.”
There was another embarrassing pause. Matt’s eyes wandered distractedly towards Herbert’s boots. The spotless battalion fascinated him; the buttons winked maliciously.
“How about portraits?” said Herbert, suddenly. “I thought you did portraits in Nova Scotia. Was that also—was that, er—true?”
Matt did not at once answer; it had suddenly occurred to him that there was probably another battalion of boots in Herbert’s dressing-room. When Herbert’s question at last penetrated to his consciousness, he replied with a start:
“Oh yes. Perhaps I may get sitters here, too. The only thing that really worries me is that bill.”
“Oh, well, if that’s all, you can make your mind easy. He can’t touch you; you’ve no money.” Herbert laughed gleefully. “It’ll serve him right, the scoundrel!”
“But he can put me in prison,” said Matt, blanching at the mere idea; “and that I could never survive.”
Herbert’s laugh became more boisterous.
“Oh, you innocent!” he gasped. “We’re not living in the dark ages. A man without a farthing is the king of creation. Nothing can touch him.”
“Oh, but they put people in prison for debt in Nova Scotia,” said Matt, surprised.