But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded. To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things he would like to remember.
He looked again at the man cleaning fish. “Pretty steady work,” he said, nodding toward the red pile.
The man looked up with a grunt. “Everything’s steady—that pays,” he said indifferently.
The artist’s eyebrows lifted a little. “So?”
“Yep.” The man tossed aside another fish. “Ye can’t earn money stan’in’ with your hands in your pockets.”
“I guess that’s so,” said the artist, cheerfully. He did not remove the hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them merrily.
“There’s Willum,” said the man, aggressively, sweeping his red knife toward the cliff. “He’s poor—poor as poverty—an’ he al’ays will be.”
“What do you think is the reason?” asked the artist. The tone held respectful interest.
The man looked at him more tolerantly. “Too fond of settin’.”
The artist nodded. “I’m afraid he is.”