'I want more,--heaps more. The lean years have passed, and I approve of
these fat ones.'

'Be careful, old man. That way lies bad work.'

Torpenhow was sprawling in a long chair with a small fox-terrier asleep
on his chest, while Dick was preparing a canvas. A dais, a background,
and a lay-figure were the only fixed objects in the place. They rose from
a wreck of oddments that began with felt-covered water-bottles, belts,
and regimental badges, and ended with a small bale of second-hand
uniforms and a stand of mixed arms. The mark of muddy feet on the dais
showed that a military model had just gone away. The watery autumn
sunlight was falling, and shadows sat in the corners of the studio.

'Yes,' said Dick, deliberately, 'I like the power; I like the fun; I like the
fuss; and above all I like the money. I almost like the people who make
the fuss and pay the money. Almost. But they're a queer gang,--an
amazingly queer gang!'

'They have been good enough to you, at any rate. Than tin-pot exhibition
of your sketches must have paid. Did you see that the papers called it the
"Wild Work Show"?'

'Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I wanted to; and, on my word,
I believe it was because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone artist.

I should have got better prices if I worked my things on wool or
scratched them on camel-bone instead of using mere black and white and
colour. Verily, they are a queer gang, these people. Limited isn't the