handed, supposed to be weak from prison life, forty pounds lighter.
He'd get the grand razoo all along the line. Oh, Gavegan will never
let out a peep."

"He'll square things in some other way," said Hunt.

"I suppose he'll try," Larry responded carelessly. "Where's the first-
aid room?"

Hunt showed him through the curtains. When he came out, Hunt, Maggie,
and the Duchess were all engaged in getting the dinner upon the table.
Additional help would only be interference, so Larry's eyes wandered
casually to the canvases standing in the shadows against the walls.

"Mr. Hunt," he remarked, "you seem to have earned a very real
reputation of its sort in the neighborhood. Old Isaac downstairs told
me you were crazy--said they called you 'Nuts'--said you were the
worst painter that ever happened."

"Yeh, that's what they say," agreed Hunt.

"They certainly are awful, Larry," put in Maggie, coming to his side.
"Father thinks they are jokes, and father certainly knows pictures.
Just look at a few of them."

"Yeh, look at 'em and have a good laugh," invited Hunt.

Larry carried the portrait of the Duchess to beneath the swinging
electric bulb and examined it closely. Maggie, at his shoulder, waited
for his mirth; and Hunt regarded him with a sidelong gaze. But Larry