Part 15 (1/2)
”Bad?” said Penny.
The old man raised his hand impressively. ”I've been to every studio in the hull city, and I never see such absences in my life. What with the seash.o.r.e and the mountains, and this and that resort, I think all the models will be starved by fall. I found one man in up on Fifty-seventh Street. He ses to me: 'Come around Tuesday--I may want yez and I may not.' That was last week. You know, I live down on the Bowery, Mr.
Pennoyer, and when I got up there on Tuesday, he ses: 'Confound you, are you here again?' ses he. I went and sat down in the park, for I was too tired for the walk back. And there you are, Mr. Pennoyer. What with trampin' around to look for men that are thousand miles away, I'm near dead.”
”It's hard,” said Penny.
”It is, sir. I hope they'll come back soon. The summer is the death of us all, sir; it is. Sure, I never know where my next meal is coming until I get it. That's true.”
”Had anything to-day?”
”Yes, sir, a little.”
”How much?”
”Well, sir, a lady gave me a cup of coffee this morning. It was good, too, I'm telling you.”
Penny went to his cupboard. When he returned, he said: ”Here's some cake.”
Tim thrust forward his hands, palms erect. ”Oh, now, Mr. Pennoyer, I couldn't. You--”
”Go ahead. What's the odds?”
”Oh, now.”
”Go ahead, you old bat.”
Penny smoked.
When Tim was going out, he turned to grow eloquent again. ”Well, I can't tell you how much I'm obliged to you, Mr. Pennoyer. You--”
”Don't mention it, old man.”
Penny smoked.
THE SILVER PAGEANT.
”It's rotten,” said Grief.
”Oh, it's fair, old man. Still, I would not call it a great contribution to American art,” said Wrinkles.
”You've got a good thing, Gaunt, if you go at it right,” said little Pennoyer.
These were all volunteer orations. The boys had come in one by one and spoken their opinions. Gaunt listened to them no more than if they had been so many match-peddlers. He never heard anything close at hand, and he never saw anything excepting that which transpired across a mystic wide sea. The shadow of his thoughts was in his eyes, a little grey mist, and, when what you said to him had pa.s.sed out of your mind, he asked: ”Wha--a--at?” It was understood that Gaunt was very good to tolerate the presence of the universe, which was noisy and interested in itself. All the younger men, moved by an instinct of faith, declared that he would one day be a great artist if he would only move faster than a pyramid. In the meantime he did not hear their voices.
Occasionally when he saw a man take vivid pleasure in life, he faintly evinced an admiration. It seemed to strike him as a feat. As for him, he was watching that silver pageant across a sea.
When he came from Paris to New York somebody told him that he must make his living. He went to see some book publishers, and talked to them in his manner--as if he had just been stunned. At last one of them gave him drawings to do, and it did not surprise him. It was merely as if rain had come down.