“Will you liquor with me?” he said.
“I was just about to ask you that,” and the mountain stamped his foot three times.
The moment the two glasses were set on the counter of the little secret bar Matt threw down a ringing dollar with careless magnificence. Coble put his paw on it and pushed it back to him, throwing down a rival dollar. There was a playful scuffle of shoving fingers, accompanied by expostulatory murmurs. Then Matt, rejoicing in defeat, resignedly pocketed his vanquished piece.
“What do you make out of that there paintin’ business?” suddenly asked Coble, as he set down his half-emptied glass and lounged reposefully against the counter.
Matt took another sip of whiskey. “Oh, there are ups and downs,” he said.
“Well, what’s the uppiest up?”
“It depends,” said Matt, vaguely. “If I could succeed in London there’s no end to the money I might make. It isn’t unusual to get three or four thousand dollars for a picture.”
“Three or four thousand dollars!” roared the Titan. “Where do you think I was raised?”
“Why, my uncle in London has often paid five thousand dollars for a picture. Yes, and even ten, though that’s usually after the painter’s dead.”
“Then why don’t you go to London?”