“Put our boots on,—and dress,—and wash?” The Nilghai spoke very lazily.
“I withdraw the motion.”
“Suppose, just for a change—as a startling variety, you know—we, that is to say we, get our charcoal and our canvas and go on with our work.”
Torpenhow spoke pointedly, but Dick only wriggled his toes inside the soft leather moccasins.
“What a one-ideaed clucker that is! If I had any unfinished figures on hand, I haven’t any model; if I had my model, I haven’t any spray, and I never leave charcoal unfixed overnight; and if I had my spray and twenty photographs of backgrounds, I couldn’t do anything to-night. I don’t feel that way.”
“Binkie-dog, he’s a lazy hog, isn’t he?” said the Nilghai.
“Very good, I will do some work,” said Dick, rising swiftly. “I’ll fetch the Nungapunga Book, and we’ll add another picture to the Nilghai Saga.”
“Aren’t you worrying him a little too much?” asked the Nilghai, when Dick had left the room.
“Perhaps, but I know what he can turn out if he likes. It makes me savage to hear him praised for past work when I know what he ought to do. You and I are arranged for——”
“By Kismet and our own powers, more’s the pity. I have dreamed of a good deal.”