At last Dave was ready.
"What's yer a-puttin' on that awful mug fur?" demanded Sanders. "D'ye feel sick?"
"Sick?" echoed the artist.
"Sure! Mebbe the smell of paint ain't good. There was Phil Levins' dad—started ter paint his barn, an' was took somphin' awful."
Sanders looked mildly astonished when his hearers roared with laughter.
"Bang—there it goes," said Sam, as Dave started to sketch in the general lines with charcoal.
"Ah!" said Bob, when the first dab of color struck the canvas.
And Dave squinted his eyes and sighed, and contracted his brows, as the surface was gradually covered.
"Don't look like nothin' ter me," said Sanders, frankly, his face within two feet of the canvas. "'Tain't smooth."
"If," said Dave, calmly, "that paint gets on your nose, Sanders, don't blame me."