"It's not bad," observed a man in a cloak, who had come up while he was murmuring, and who now stood beside him; "not at all bad, considering he never gave you a sitting."
"That's true enough," replied the Sculptor; "but how did you know it?"
"Because I happen to be Dash Blank himself!" and then the man in the cloak threw off that covering, and revealed his identity.
After this came an explanation. The genius noticing that when a clever man dies there is always a run upon his works, died himself. At any rate that was the impression in the minds of everyone save a friendly executor, who collected the money for his estate. Then the friendly executor paid the proceeds to the imaginary deceased.
"And shall you resume work?" asked the Sculptor, after he had recovered from his astonishment.
"Not I. You need be under no alarm that anyone will compare your portrait with the original. I have had enough of work, and with my recently accumulated capital, shall try my hand at speculation. Good bye, if you are in my neighbourhood, look me up. You will find me anywhere between the Arctic and Antarctic Zones." And then he went over to America, put his money into wooden nutmegs, and promptly became a millionaire.
THE "ONE-HORSE" HOUSEHOLDER.
(A Solemn Social Ditty.)
In a region where freshly-built suburbs lie ending