“He doesn't seem to be particularly short of it,” added the other, peering with growing wonder round the cabin.
“His money, my taste,” said Dodd. “The black-walnut bookshelves are Old English; the books all mine,—mostly Renaissance French. You should see how the beach-combers wilt away when they go round them looking for a change of Seaside Library novels. The mirrors are genuine Venice; that's a good piece in the corner. The daubs are mine—and his; the mudding mine.”
“Mudding? What is that?” asked Havens.
“These bronzes,” replied Dodd. “I began life as a sculptor.”
“Yes; I remember something about that,” said the other. “I think, too, you said you were interested in Californian real estate.”
“Surely, I never went so far as that,” said Dodd. “Interested? I guess not. Involved, perhaps. I was born an artist; I never took an interest in anything but art. If I were to pile up this old schooner to-morrow,” he added, “I declare I believe I would try the thing again!”
“Insured?” inquired Havens.
“Yes,” responded Dodd. “There's some fool in 'Frisco who insures us, and comes down like a wolf on the fold on the profits; but we'll get even with him some day.”
“Well, I suppose it's all right about the cargo,” said Havens.
“O, I suppose so!” replied Dodd. “Shall we go into the papers?”