“Oh, is it,” she said; “come along, Halbert.” Then, turning to me, she added—“Are yer comin’ to-morrer? I’d like yer to see my brother’s paintin’s.”
“That depends upon how much I make to-day, Julia,” I answered—“whether the ‘pitch’ is a good one or not.”
“Oh,” said Julia, thoughtfully; “I’d like yer to come to-morrer,” and then as she passed she dropped a halfpenny into my box.
On other occasions, when out painting in poor neighbourhoods, my easel, camp-stool, and self have been used as “home” in games like “Hi-spi-Hoy” and “Hoop,” and I have, during the progress of my sketch, been more than once in imminent danger of being carried away, and my kit sent flying, during a sudden rush of the excited players. But even such an indignity as this does not touch bottom. Boys have before now made me a “Harbour of Refuge,” with the poetry left out, and bricks and various missiles substituted. They have dodged behind me to escape the consequences of “cheekiness” to bigger boys, and have used my canvas as a screen to shield off stones.
And what are you to do? Just at that moment, in all likelihood, you are putting in a crisp, telling touch that will “do the trick,” and if the news were brought to you that your favourite aunt had fallen downstairs, it would not be sufficient to make you rise from off your camp-stool.
I was sketching once near a row of those cheap one-storied cottages, generally called Villa This and Villa That, inhabited by a tribe the mothers of which seem always to have a baby on hand, and several others in various stages of development. These children spend most of their time, so far as I can judge, in hanging about, just outside the front garden, waiting for something to turn up to amuse them, and I had been much bothered by their creeping round behind me, or edging closer and closer to my side, and occasionally shoving each other so as to shake me or my sketch. I tried to forget them, and maintained a chilling silence. The numbers, however, kept on increasing, and presently games were projected in my immediate vicinity, as though I were the centre of gravity, or the hub of the universe. The climax was reached when a young nurse, aged seven or thereabouts, with a child just on the brink of independence in her arms, came up and said—
“D’yer mind me leaving my baby here, while I have a game with the Tubbses? She’ll be all right if I sit her on your jacket.”
Nice thing when seeking material for a masterpiece for next year’s Academy to be asked to look after baby!