“At an exhibit?”
“Yes.”
“Well, up our way we don’t do like that. We take everything that comes in—pies and pickles and bedquilts and pumpkins and everything; putty triflin’ stuff, some of it, but they take it. This is different, I s’pose?”
“A little. Yes. They only take the best—or what they call the best.” The tone was bitter.
Uncle William looked at him mildly. “Then they took yourn—every one on ’em. They was as good picters as I ever see.”
The artist’s face lightened a little. “They were good.” His thought dwelt on them lovingly.
Uncle William slipped quietly away to his room. The artist heard him moving about, opening and shutting bureau drawers, humming gently and fussing and talking in broken bits. Time passed. It was growing dark in the room.
The artist turned a little impatiently. “Hallo there!”
Uncle William stuck out his head. “Want suthin’?”
“What are you doing?” said the artist. It was almost querulous.