Part 6 (2/2)
”That's it. I'm going on an adventure.”
”There, keep like that,” cried the artist. ”Don't stir. I do believe I'm getting you. Holy Moses, it will be great! If only I could catch the expression! There's nothing like adventure, is there? The glorious uncertainty of it! To wake up in the morning and know that the unexpected is bound to happen during the day. Exciting, isn't it?”
”Ay,” said Paul, his face aglow.
The young man worked tense and quick at the luminous eyes. He broke a long silence by asking, ”What's your name?”
”Paul Kegworthy.”
”Paul? That's odd.” In the sphere of life to which the ragged urchin belonged Toms and Bills and Jims were as thick as blackberries, but Pauls were rare.
”What's odd?” said Paul.
”Your name. How did you get it? It's uncommon.”
”I suppose it is,” said Paul. ”I never thowt of it. I never knew anybody of that name afore.”
Here was another sign and token of romantic origin suddenly revealed.
Paul felt the thrill of it. He resisted a temptation to ask his new friend whether it was an appellation generally reserved for princes.
”Look here, joking apart,” said the artist, putting in the waves of the thick black hair, ”are you really going to be dumped down in London to seek your fortune? Don't you know anybody there?”
”No,” said Paul.
”How are you going to live?”
Paul dived a hand into his breeches pocket and jingled coins. ”I've got th' bra.s.s,” said he.
”How much?”
”Three s.h.i.+llings and sevenpence-ha'penny,” said Paul, with an opulent air. ”And yo'r s.h.i.+lling will make it four and sevenpence-ha'penny.”
”Good G.o.d!” said-the young man. He went on drawing for some time in silence. Then he said: ”My brother is a painter--rather a swell--a Royal Academician. He would love to paint you. So would other fellows.
You could easily earn your living as a model--doing as a business, you know, what you're doing now for fun, more or less.”
”How much could I earn?”
”It all depends. Say a pound to thirty s.h.i.+llings a week.”
Paul gasped and sat paralyzed. Artist, dusty road, gaudy van, distant cornfields and uplands were blotted from his senses. The cool waves of Pactolus lapped his feet.
”Come and look me up when you get to London,” continued the friendly voice. ”My name is Rowlatt-W. W. Rowlatt, 4, Gray's Inn Square. Can you remember it?”
”Ay,” said Paul.
”Shall I write it down?”
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