“What was the name o’ that artist chap? A local man, but quite well up, they tell me.”
“Stanning, R.A.” Something hard and queer rose in the Corporal’s throat.
“That’s the jockey—Stanning, R.A. Now I remember ... a rare dust there was in the Council some years ago when the Art Committee bought one of his pictures for....” The Mayor drew heavily at his cigar ... “for ... dram it! I’m losing my memory....”
“A thousand guineas,” the Corporal whispered.
“Something like that. Something extortionate. I remember there was a proper dust when the Council got to know of it. All very well to encourage local talent, I remember saying, but a thousand guineas was money. Maxon the curator resigned.”
The Corporal kept his eyes on the fire.
With a rich chuckle the Mayor turned over the cigar in his mouth at the memory of old battles in the Council Chamber. “The fur flew for a bit, I can tell you. He wasn’t an R.A. at that time and the poor chap’s gone now so happen he’ll begin to rank as an old master. They tell me fabulous sums are paid for these old masters, so one o’ these days Stanning, R.A., may grow into money and the City’ll have a bargain after all. But I don’t pretend to understand such things myself. A brave man, anyway. Joined up with the B.B. at the beginning and was killed out yonder.”
The Corporal nodded but said nothing. The Mayor went on with his cigar. “I’m trying to remember the name of another artist chap who used to live in that cottage when I was a boy. We used to jang from school on fine afternoons in the summer and go bathing in Corfield Weir. And painting by the river was an old chap with a long beard like Tennyson—you’ve seen the picture of Tennyson”—Josiah pointed to a lithograph of the bard on the wall behind the Corporal—“but not quite so fierce looking. Wonderful blue eyes had that old feller ... lord love me, what did they call him!... I remember we used to throw stones at his easel. We got one right through it once, when he had nearly finished his picture and he had to begin all over again. What was the name of the old feller?” The Mayor fingered his cigar lovingly and looked into the fire. “Soft Billy ... that was it.... Soft Billy.” Josiah sighed gently. “Poor, harmless old boy. I can see those blue eyes now.”
The Mayor drew gently at his cigar while the Corporal kept his eyes on the fire. “That reminds me.... I’ve got one of the old chap’s pictures, somewhere.” The Mayor laughed softly to himself. “Took it for a bad debt ... quite a small thing ... wonder what’s become of it?” He grew pensive. “Must be up in the box room.” Suddenly he rose from his chair. “I’ll go and see if I can find it.”
The man of action went out of the room, leaving the Corporal in silent enjoyment of warmth, the tobacco and many reflections.