It was growing dark, but the exhibition had been so successful that day, and the crowd was still so large, that the hunchback was loath to desist. At a sign from him, Jan put his colored chalks into a little pouch in front of him, and drew in powerful chiaroscuro with soft black chalk and whitening. These sketches were visible for some time, and the interest of the crowd did not abate.
Suddenly a flush came over Jan’s wan cheeks. A baker who had paused for a moment to look, and then passed on, was singing as he went, and the song and the man’s accent were both familiar to Jan.
“The swallow twitters on the barn,
The rook is cawing on the tree,
And in the wood the ring-dove coos”—
“What’s your name, boy?”
The peremptory tone of the question turned Jan’s attention from the song, which died away down the street, and looking up he met a pair of eyes as black as his own, and Mr. Ford’s client repeated his question. On seeing that a “swell” had paused to look, the Cheap Jack hurried to Jan’s side, and was in time to answer.
“John Smith’s his name, sir. He’s slow of speech, my lord, though very quick with his pencil. There’s not many artists can beat him, though I says it that shouldn’t, being his father.”
“You his father?” said the gentleman. “He is not much like you.”
“He favours his mother more, my lord,” said the Cheap Jack; “and that’s where he gets his talents too.”
“No one ever thought he got ’em from you, old hump!” said one of the spectators, and there was a roar of laughter from the bystanders.
Mr. Ford’s client still lingered, though the staring and pushing of the rude crowd were annoying to him.