Ben was almost entirely interested in painting the animals. He was trying to draw them from his recollection of the leaping buck. He got the action very well, Mr. Seymour told him, but he would have to practice more on the outlines, so that the leaping figure would look more like a deer.
“When I saw that deer,” Ben explained excitedly, “I felt as if I were jumping in exactly the same way. That is why I am sure about how the lines should go.”
“With a little patience, Ben,” his father promised, “I feel certain that you will be able to draw.”
“And I shall be very famous?”
“I can’t promise that. The famous—but of course you don’t mean ‘famous’; you aren’t using the right word and I can’t have you saying it. You are trying to ask me whether you can do work that will satisfy yourself, and that no one can prophesy. You will have to work hard. Don’t think that you can be anything you wish by merely wishing it. And besides, some of the greatest painters have only made a bare living after studying and working all their lives long.”
“I don’t care if I don’t make any money,” said Ben stoutly, “if I can paint as much as I like.”
“Paint costs money,” said Mr. Seymour rather sadly. “And an artist has to feed himself and his family.”
“Don’t you worry about that, Ben,” Ann protested. “When Jo and I get our ranch started you can come and live with us—can’t he, Jo?”
“Sure he can,” Jo assented readily. “And he can paint all the time; there will be lots of animals out there, steers and horses. And we can live on potatoes and beans.”
Mr. Seymour seemed to think that this was very funny, for he laughed heartily.