But on this bright day in August the artist sat once more hard at work, painting for money, painting for subsistence. For not only had he been induced to invest largely in Overton, Baker, & Co., but he had a deposit account at their local branch in his native city of Severntown, and the branch had succumbed to the same monetary pressure which had swamped the head concern. And Arthur Phillips was nearly penniless.
There were many others in Severntown almost in the same condition, and from the same cause. So Arthur, instead of making himself wretched and miserable, packed up his box of colours, and went out to finish that bit of local study upon which we find him engaged, prior to locking himself up in his study for months of hard work.
“I thought I should find you at last, old boy,” said Mr. Hammerton, putting his hand familiarly on Arthur’s shoulders. “By the aid of your man, that faithful old grinder of colours and cleaner of pallettes, I traced you to the cross-roads; there I was at fault, and almost gave you up. I believe my old mare scented you out at last.”
“Then give my best thanks to the old mare, for I am glad to see you,” said Arthur.
“By Jove, that’s pretty! what a glorious bit of colour! Have you finished?”
“Yes; I think so.”
“Then pack up—here, I’ll help you—and let us have a quiet chat. Your man said he was to meet you here in about an hour, to carry the things home.”
“Yes,” said Arthur; “but I have finished. I was just thinking of smoking a quiet pipe whilst the sun goes down.”
“Bravo! we’ll mingle our smoke together, friend Arthur,” said Hammerton; adding, a little more seriously, “and our tears, too, by Jove! It’s the last time we shall see each other for a long time, I guess.”
“Indeed! Why?” said Arthur, turning the key in his colour-box.