TWO days after the horse-show opening Jack stood in front of an easel, in the studio on the top floor of an up-town building. He had charcoaled on the canvas a design of a girl on a horse. No model for either figure was in sight; but the artist’s rapt expression suggested that his eyes were opened to things invisible to common senses. The girl had long, black hair, and the horse seemed to be a white Arab stallion.
The only other person in the big, empty room was an undersized boy of fifteen, who was short one leg. He had the aspect of a clever and good-natured gnome. He was occupied in cleaning paint-brushes and was whistling softly to himself.
A soft, bell-like sound, thrice repeated, suddenly proceeded from a small black box affixed to the wall. The artist, roused from his vision, frowned.
“Say I’m busy, Jim,” he muttered. “Only ten o’clock, too!”
Jim hobbled to the box and shot back a panel, disclosing a mirror six inches square, in which appeared a miniature but lively image of a middle-aged man of athletic build and aquiline features. “It’s yer Uncle Sam, boss,” he said.
Jack sighed, laid down his palette, and strode over to the box.
“Good morning, uncle,” he said, addressing the image. “What’s up?”
“Get over here at once—very important—quick car!” the other replied, with an urgent gesture.
“Would this afternoon do, uncle? I’m awfully busy just now—”
“Don’t lose a moment!” rejoined his uncle, beckoning imperiously. “That girl of Mayne’s, you know—the old man is in a devil of a taking—come on!”