“He’s one of the few remaining examples of the sidewalk or public-view school of art.”
“Yes, but what does he do it for?”
“His living.”
“Do people give him money for it? Do you think I might give him something?” she asked, looking uncertainly at the artist, who, on hands and knees and with tongue protruding, was putting a green head on a red bird, too absorbed even to notice the onlookers.
“I think he’d be tickled pink.”
She took a quarter from her purse, hesitated, then slipped it into her companion’s hand.
“You give it to him. I think he’d like it better.”
“Oh, no; I don’t think he’d like it at all. In fact, I doubt if he’d take it from me.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you see,” explained Julien blandly, “we’re rather intimately connected.” He raised his voice. “Hello, Dad!”