Larry faced the big painter. His figure was tense, his features hard
with suspicion. That moment one could understand why he was sometimes
called "Terrible Larry"; just then he looked a devastating explosion
that was still unexploded.
"What's your game down here, Hunt?" he demanded harshly.
"My game?" repeated the big painter. "I don't get you."
"Yes, you do! You're down here posing as a boob who smears up
canvases!"
"What's wrong with that?"
"Only this: those are not crazy daubs. They're real pictures!"
"Eh!" exclaimed Hunt. Maggie stared in bewilderment at the two men.
Hunt spoke again. "What the dickens do you know about pictures? Old
Jimmie, who's said to be a shark, thinks all these things are just
comics."
"Jimmie only thinks a picture's good after a thousand press-agents
have said it's good," Larry returned. "I studied at the Academy of
Design for two years, till I learned I could never paint. But I know
pictures."
"And you think mine are good?"
"Not in the popular manner--they're too original. But they're great.
And you're a great painter. And I want to know--"
"Hurray!" shouted Hunt, and flung an enthusiastic arm about Larry, and
began to pound his back. "Oh, boy! Oh, boy!"
Larry wrenched himself free. "Cut that out.
Pages:
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53