However, I made a number of good friends among the artists. One of them, dear old Mr. Rintoul, who had a studio in that long row of studios near the art gallery. One day, I knocked at his door and applied for work as a model. He opened the door and peered out at me in the dark hall. At first he said he was sorry, but he couldn’t use me. He was a landscape-painter, and he said he guessed I had come to the wrong man, as there was another artist of his name on Tremont Street who painted figures. Then he said:
“But come in, come in!”
He was a little man of about fifty, and his face had the chubby look of a child. He wore the funniest old-fashioned clothes. He peered up at me through his glasses, and seemed to be examining my face. After a moment he said:
“Having a hard time, eh? Or are you extra busy now?”
I told him I was not extra busy, and he rubbed his chin in a funny way and said:
“I believe I can use you after all. Now I’ll tell you how we’ll arrange it. I’m a pretty busy man, so I can’t make any definite engagement, but you come here whenever you have nothing else to do, and I’ll use you if I can. If I’m too busy, I’ll pay you just the same. How will that do?”
I thanked him, and told him I was so glad, for work was getting scarcer every day.
He pointed to a big armchair and said:
“Now sit down there and rest yourself. Be placid! Be placid!” He waved his hand at me, and went to see who was knocking at the door. Then he came back and said:
“Too busy to use you to-day. Here’s the money,” and he handed me seventy cents, as if for two hours’ work.