“You’ll have the chance. I guess I hear them coming, now. We’ll draw them out on their art, if you like.”
The artists arrived and shook hands with great heartiness. The German was forty and a little fleshy, with a shiny bald head and a kindly face and deferential manner. Capt. Saltmarsh was sixty, tall, erect, powerfully built, with coal-black hair and whiskers, and he had a well tanned complexion, and a gait and countenance that were full of command, confidence and decision. His horny hands and wrists were covered with tattoo-marks, and when his lips parted, his teeth showed up white and blemishless. His voice was the effortless deep bass of a church organ, and would disturb the tranquility of a gas flame fifty yards away.
“They’re wonderful pictures,” said Barrow. “We’ve been examining them.”
“It is very bleasant dot you like dem,” said Handel, the German, greatly pleased. “Und you, Herr Tracy, you haf peen bleased mit dem too, alretty?”
“I can honestly say I have never seen anything just like them before.”
“Schön!” cried the German, delighted. “You hear, Gaptain? Here is a chentleman, yes, vot abbreviate unser aart.”
The captain was charmed, and said:
“Well, sir, we’re thankful for a compliment yet, though they’re not as scarce now as they used to be before we made a reputation.”