“No, really, he didn’t tell me that,” said Matt.
“Oh, you needn’t spare the old man’s feelings. I know what a man says when he finds you won’t be swindled. He’s the everlastingest old dodger that ever drummed for me. His tricks ’ould puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer. The only honest bit of work he ever did in his life was that thar pictur’ of a shark. That’s stunnin’, I admit, and I’d willingly let the poor devil out of the cage if my darter warn’t so bitter agen him. There, that’s the truth. I never told it to any of the other fellows, they all looked such moulty jail-birds. Say now, you said you were a painter, ain’t that a good pictur’?”
Although Mr. Coble’s words were now more amiable, his accent was still fierce, and it required some courage on Matt’s part to reply that the picture was pretty good in a manner that betokened that it was pretty bad.
“Ho, two of a trade!” quoth the mountain of a man.
“The shark couldn’t be like that,” Matt explained, mildly. “He has to turn on his back before biting. It isn’t true to life.”
“Waal,” said Mr. Coble, in irate tones, “as the shark’s got nothing at all to do with the sponge business, and the divers ain’t in no sort o’ danger whatever from it, I don’t see where truth to life comes in, anyhow.”
“Oh, but the less lies you tell in Art the better,” urged Matt. “I’ll do you another if you like.”
“Ho, that’s your dodge, is it?”
“I’m not asking anything for it,” the young man retorted, indignantly. “It ’ll be a return for your listening to my appeal.”
Mr. Coble was startled.