“What I say—I will give one hundred guineas for that painting,” answered the young Englishman, getting off his horse.
“That picture is not to be sold,” said the sign-painter, with an air of as much pride as if it had been his own work.
“No,” quoth mine host, “for it is already sold, and even partly paid for in advance. However, if monsieur wishes to come to an arrangement about it, it is with me that he must treat.”
“Not at all, not at all,” rejoined the Flemish painter of signs, “it belongs to me. My fellow-artist here gave me a little help out of friendship; but the picture is my lawful property, and I am at liberty to sell it to any one I please.”
“What roguery!” exclaimed the innkeeper, “My Rising Sun is my property; fastened on the wall of my house. How can it belong to anybody else. Isn’t it painted on my boards. No one but myself has the smallest right to it.”
“I’ll summon you before the magistrate,” cried he who had not painted the sign.
“I’ll prosecute you for breach of covenant,” retorted the innkeeper who had half paid for it.
“One moment!” interposed another energetic voice, that of the interloper; “it seems to me that I ought to have some little vote in this business.”
“Quite right, brother,” answered the painter. “Instead of disputing on the public road, let us go into Master Martzen’s house, and arrange the matter amicably over a bottle or two of beer.”
To this all parties agreed, but I am sorry to say they agreed in nothing else; for within doors, the dispute was carried on with deafening confusion and energy. The Flemings contended for the possession of the painting, and the Englishman repeated his offer to cover it with gold.