“Are you going to make a sketch of it?” I could not help asking, as I unveiled the Genius of Muskegon.
“Ah, that’s my secret,” said he. “Never you mind. A mouse can help a lion.”
He walked round my statue, and had the design explained to him. I had represented Muskegon as a young, almost a stripling mother, with something of an Indian type; the babe upon her knees was winged, to indicate our soaring future; and her seat was a medley of sculptured fragments, Greek, Roman, and Gothic, to remind us of the older worlds from which we trace our generation.
“Now, does this satisfy you, Mr. Dodd?” he inquired, as soon as I had explained to him the main features of the design.
“Well,” I said, “the fellows seem to think it’s not a bad bonne femme for a beginner. I don’t think it’s entirely bad myself. Here is the best point; it builds up best from here. No, it seems to me it has a kind of merit,” I admitted; “but I mean to do better.”
“Ah, that’s the word!” cried Pinkerton. “There’s the word I love!” and he scribbled in his pad.
“What in creation ails you?” I inquired. “It’s the most commonplace expression in the English language.”
“Better and better!” chuckled Pinkerton. “The unconsciousness of genius. Lord, but this is coming in beautiful!” and he scribbled again.
“If you’re going to be fulsome,” said I, “I’ll close the place of entertainment”; and I threatened to replace the veil upon the Genius.
“No, no,” said he; “don’t be in a hurry. Give me a point or two. Show me what’s particularly good.”