"What does he pay for a piece of work like this?"
"Whatever he likes," said Ben morosely. Burton saw that he had touched a sensitive spot.
"One dollar,--two dollars, maybe. If he feels 'good.'"
"And then he doesn't pay what he says he will," added Mrs. Bussey. "It's always come next week, and wait a little."
"Why, that's absurd! I'm sure I can get you ten to twenty times that for it. May I see it?"
Ben dropped the piece of wood he held, and Burton picked it up. It was intended for a panel in the side of a bookcase, and the design was cut out in low relief. It was a spirited sketch of an Indian with a bent bow drawn up to his shoulder.
"That's good," said Burton, in frank admiration. "Awfully good. Did you copy it or design it yourself?"
"Just made it up."
"What is he shooting at?"
The answer was startling, in view of Burton's theory of the situation. Ben glanced at him with a smile that held some hidden meaning. "Selby says he is shooting at the brave that has stolen his squaw." Then he lapsed back into his former attitude of somber indifference. "I think he is just shooting for fun," he added carelessly.