'You've learnt something while I've been away. What is Art?'

'Give 'em what they know, and when you've done it once do it again.'

Dick dragged forward a canvas laid face to the wall. 'Here's a sample of
real Art. It's going to be a facsimile reproduction for a weekly. I called it
"His Last Shot." It's worked up from the little water-colour I made
outside El Maghrib. Well, I lured my model, a beautiful rifleman, up
here with drink; I drored him, and I redrored him, and I redrored him,
and I made him a flushed, dishevelled, bedevilled scallawag, with his
helmet at the back of his head, and the living fear of death in his eye, and
the blood oozing out of a cut over his ankle-bone. He wasn't pretty, but
he was all soldier and very much man.'

'Once more, modest child!'

Dick laughed. 'Well, it's only to you I'm talking. I did him just as well as
I knew how, making allowance for the slickness of oils. Then the
art-manager of that abandoned paper said that his subscribers wouldn't
like it. It was brutal and coarse and violent,--man being naturally gentle
when he's fighting for his life. They wanted something more restful, with
a little more colour. I could have said a good deal, but you might as well
talk to a sheep as an art-manager. I took my "Last Shot" back. Behold
the result! I put him into a lovely red coat without a speck on it. That is
Art. I polished his boots,--observe the high light on the toe. That is Art. I
cleaned his rifle,--rifles are always clean on service,--because that is Art.

I pipeclayed his helmet,--pipeclay is always used on active service, and is
indispensable to Art. I shaved his chin, I washed his hands, and gave him