2

When Simon woke next morning he lay for a few minutes wondering where he was. It seemed strange to wake in a bed, in a room, in the middle of a city. He was used to waking in a cave in the woods, or, in summer, to sleeping out under the trees, being roused by the birds to lie looking up at the green canopy overhead. He felt uneasy so far away from the grass and trees of the forest home where he had lived for the past five years.

Outside, in the street, he could hear wheels and voices; the kitten was awake and mewing for its breakfast. After Simon had fed it the last of the milk he wandered across the landing to the empty room and gazed out of the window. The tide was nearly full, and the Thames was a bustle of activity. Simon watched the shipping, absorbed, until a whole series of church clocks striking culminated in the solemn boom of St. Paul's itself, and reminded him that he could not stand here all day gazing while time slipped by. It was still needful to discover Dr. Field's whereabouts, and to earn some money.

Kind, wealthy Sir Willoughby Green, who had befriended Simon in Yorkshire, had offered to pay his art-school fees, but Simon had no intention of being beholden if he could avoid it, and proposed to look for work which would provide enough money for his tuition as well as food and rent. He had a considerable fund of quiet pride, and had purposely waited to leave Willoughby Chase until the Green family was away on a visit. Thus he had been spared a sad farewell, and had also avoided the risk of hurting Sir Willoughby's feelings by refusing the money which he knew that liberal-hearted gentleman would have pressed on him.

Munching a piece of bread, Simon tucked the kitten into the bosom of his frieze jacket; then he ran softly downstairs. The house was silent—evidently the Twites were still asleep. Simon resolved that he would not wait till they woke to question them about Dr. Field, but would go to the Academy of Art which he was to attend—where Dr. Field also studied—to ask for the doctor's address. Unfortunately Simon did not know the name of the academy, but he remembered that it was in Chelsea.

He stole past the closed doors of the Twites, resolving that when he returned in the evening he would move the furniture from the room where he had slept into the one overlooking the river; it had a pleasanter view, and appeared to be in a superior state of cleanliness.

Opening the front door Simon found Dido Twite sitting on the front steps, kicking her heels discontentedly. She was wearing the same stained dress that she had had on yesterday, and did not appear to have washed her face or brushed her hair since Simon had last seen her.

"Hallo!" she said alertly. "Where are you going?"

"Out," said Simon. He had no intention of retailing all his doings to her and having them discussed by the Twite family.

Dido's face fell. "What about my donkey ride?" she said, looking at him from under where her brows would have been had she had any.

Although she was an unattractive brat, she had such a forlorn, neglected air that Simon's heart softened. "All right," he said, "I'll get Caroline and give you a ride if you'll do something for me while I'm fetching her."

"What?" said Dido suspiciously.

"Wash your face." He went whistling up the street.

After he had given Dido her ride he asked, "What time is your father likely to get up?"

"Not till noon—perhaps not till three or four. Pa works evenings and sleeps all day—if Penny or I wake him he throws his hoboy at us."

Simon could not imagine what a hoboy might be, but it seemed plain that no information was to be had from Mr. Twite until the evening.

"Well, good-by. I'll see you when I come home. What do you do with yourself all day? Do you go to school?"

"No," she said peevishly. "Sometimes Pa teaches me the hoboy or Aunt Tinty sets me sums. Uncle Buckle used to teach me but he doesn't any more. Mostly I does tasks for Ma—peel the spuds, sweep the stairs, stoke the furnace—"

"Furnace!" exclaimed Simon. "That was the name!"

"What name?"

"Oh, nothing that concerns you. The principal of the art academy where I am to learn painting."

He had thrown the information over his shoulder as he walked away not thinking that it could be of any possible interest to Dido Twite. He would have been surprised to see the sudden flash of alert calculation in her eyes.

Simon asked his way through the streets till he reached Chelsea—no very great distance, as it proved. Here he inquired of a man in the uniform of a beadle where he would find an academy of art presided over by a Dr. Furnace.

The beadle scratched his head.

"Dr. Furnace?" he said. "Can't say as I recall the name."

Simon's heart sank. Was Dr. Furnace to prove as elusive as Dr. Field? But then the beadle turned and shouted, "Dan!" to a man who was just emerging from an arched gateway leading a horse and gaily painted dust-cart with a cracked wheel.

"Hallo?" replied this man. "What's the row?"

"Young cove here wants Furnace's Art Academy. Know what he means?"

Both men turned and stared at Simon. The man called Dan, who was dressed in moleskin clothes from cap to leggings, slowly chewed a straw to its end, spat, and then said, "Furnace's Academy? Ah. I know what he means. He means Rivière's."

"Ah," said the beadle wisely. "That's what you mean, me boy. You means Rivière's."

"Is that far from here?" said Simon, his hopes rising.

"Matter o' ten minutes' walk," said Dan. "Going that way meself. I'll take you."

"Thank you, sir."

They strolled off, Dan leading the horse.

"I'm going to me brother-in-law's," he explained. "Does the smithying and wheelwrighting for the parish. Nice line o' business."

Simon was interested. He had worked for a blacksmith himself and knew a fair amount about the wheelwright's trade.

"There must be plenty of customers for a wheelwright in London," he said, looking about him. "I've never seen so many different kinds of carriages before. Where I come from it's mostly closed coaches and farm carts."

"Countryfied sort o' stuff," said Dan pityingly. "No art in it—and mind you, there's a lot of art in the coachmaker's trade. You get the length without the 'ighth, it looks poky and old-fashioned, to my mind, but, contrariwise, you get the 'ighth without enough body and it looks a reg'lar hurrah's-nest. Now there's a lovely bit o' bodywork—see that barouche coming along—the plum-colored one with the olive-drab outwork? Ah, very racy, that is—Duke o' Battersea's trot-box; know it well. Seen it at me brother-in-law's for repair: cracked panel."

Simon turned and saw an elegantly turned-out vehicle in which was seated an elderly lady dressed in the height of fashion with waterfalls of diamonds ornamenting her apple-peel satin gown, and a tremendous ostrich-plume headdress. She was accompanied by a pretty young girl who held a reticule, two billiard cues, a large shopping basket, and a small spaniel.

"Why!" Simon exclaimed. "That's Sophie!"

His voice rang across the street and the young girl turned her head sharply. But just then a high closed carriage came between Simon and the barouche and, a succession of other traffic following after, no second view of the girl could be obtained.

"I know that girl! She's a friend of mine!" Simon said, overjoyed. He looked at Dan with shining eyes.

"Ah. Duchess's lady's-maid, maybe? Nice-looking young gel. Very good position—good family to work for. Duke very affable sort o' gentleman—when he comes out o' those everlasting experiments of his. Bugs, chemicals, mice—queer setout for a lord. But his lady's a proper lady, so I've been told. O' course young Lord Bakerloo ain't up to much."

"Where does he live—the Duke of Battersea?" asked Simon, who had not been paying much attention.

"Battersea Castle o' course—when the family's in London. Places in the country too, nat'rally. Dorset, Yorkshire—that where you met the gel? Now, here's me brother-in-law's establishment, and, down by the river, that big place with the pillars is Rivière's."

Dan's brother-in-law's place was almost as impressive as the art academy beyond. Inside the big double gates (over which ran the legend "Cobb's Coaches," in gold) was a wide yard containing every conceivable kind of coach, carriage, phaeton, barouche, landau, chariot, and curricle, in every imaginable state of disrepair. A shed at the side contained a forge, with bellows roaring and sparks blowing, while elsewhere lathes turned, carpenters hammered, and chips flew.

"Do you suppose I could get work here?" Simon asked impulsively. "Of an evening—when I've finished at the academy?"

"No 'arm in asking, is there? Always plenty to do at Sam Cobb's, that I do know. Depends what you can do, dunnit?"

Dan led his dust-cart through the gates and then lifted up his voice and bawled, "Sam!"

A large, cheerful man came toward them.

"Why, bless me!" he exclaimed. "If it's not old Dan back again. I don't know what you do to your cart, Dan, I don't indeed. I believe it's fast driving. I believe you're out of an evening carriage-racing on the Brighton Road. You can't expect the parish dust-carts to stand up to it, Dan, no you can't, me boy."

Dan took these pleasantries agreeably, and asked after his sister Flossie. Then he said, "Here's a young cove, Sam, as wants a bit of evening work. Any use to you?"

"Any use to me?" said Mr. Cobb, summing up Simon with a shrewd but friendly eye. "Depends what he can do, eh? Looks a well-set-up young 'un. What can you do, young 'un? Can you carpenter?"

"Yes," said Simon.

"Done any blacksmith's work?"

"Yes," said Simon.

"Used to horses?"

"Yes," said Simon.

"Ever tried your hand at ornamental painting?" said Mr. Cobb, gesturing toward a little greengrocer's cart, newly and beautifully ornamented with roses and lettuces. "This sort o' thing? Or emblazoning?" He waved at a carriage with a coat-of-arms on the panel.

"I can paint a bit," said Simon. "That's why I've come to London—to study painting."

"Proper all-rounder, ennee?" said Mr. Cobb, rolling his eyes in admiration.

"You'd best take him on, Sam, then you'll be able to retire," Dan remarked.

"Well, I like a young 'un who has confidence in hisself, I like a bit o' spunk. And dear knows there's plenty of work. Tell you what, young 'un, you come round here this evening, fiveish, and I'll see what you can do. Agreeable?"

"Very thank you sir," Simon answered cheerfully. "And thank you, for setting me on my way," he said to Dan, who winked at him in a friendly manner.

"Good-by, young 'un. Now then, Dan," said Mr. Cobb, "it's early, to be sure, but there's such a nip in the air these misty mornings; what do you say to a little drop of Organ-Grinder's Oil?"

***

Simon felt somewhat nervous, as he approached the academy, but was encouraged to find that on a nearer view it presented a less imposing aspect. Some ingenious spirit had hit on the notion of suspending clotheslines between the Grecian columns supporting the roof, and from these dangled a great many socks, shirts, and other garments, while all round the marble fountain in front of the academy knelt or squatted young persons of both sexes busily engaged in washing various articles of apparel.

Simon approached a young man who was scrubbing a pair of red socks with a bar of yellow soap, and said, "Can you tell me, please, where I shall find Dr. Furnace?"

The young man rinsed his socks, held them up, sniffed them, glanced at the sun, and said, "About ten o'clock, is it? He'll be having breakfast. In his room on the first floor."

He sniffed his socks again, remarked that they still smelt of paint, and set to rubbing them once more.

Simon walked on, wondering if the young man kept his paints in his socks. In the doorway a sudden recollection hit him. Paint! That was the smell that had seemed so familiar in the top front room at Mrs. Twite's. Of course it was paint! Then—Simon stopped, assailed by suspicion—was that why Mrs. Twite had been scrubbing with Bath brick? To remove the smell of paint? Why?

Pondering this, Simon sat down on the first convenient object he found—a stone statue of a lion, half finished—to unravel the matter a little further.

Dido said Dr. Field had not been at the Twites'. But the rooms were as he had described them, the address was as he had given it, and the room smelt of paint, which suggested that he had occupied it.

Perhaps, Simon thought, perhaps he had fallen out with the Twites—had had something stolen, or found the house too dirty, or objected to being woken at one in the morning by Hanoverian songs. He had complained, taken his leave, and moved away. The Twites, annoyed at losing a lodger, had contrived an elaborate pretense that no Dr. Field had ever lived with them...

Somehow Simon found it hard to believe this. For one thing, Dr. Field was far from fussy, and, provided he was furnished with privacy and a good light for painting, was unlikely to object if his neighbors practiced cannibalism or played the bass drum all day so long as they let him alone. And, secondly why should the Twites bother to make such a pretense about a trivial matter? Haifa dozen people, neighbors, patients, local tradesmen, would be able to give their story the lie.

Then it occurred to Simon that he had not yet heard what Mr. or Mrs. Twite had to say; he had only had Dido's version. Perhaps the whole mystery was just her nonsense, and when he got back that night he would be handed a piece of paper with Dr. Field's address on it.

Cheered by this reasonable notion, Simon stood up and crossed the entrance hall. A large double flight of marble stairs faced him, and between them stood a statue of a man in a huge wig, dressed in knee breeches and a painter's smock. He held a marble paintbrush and was engaged in painting a marble picture on a marble easel. The back of the easel bore an inscription:

MARIUS RIVIÈRE
1759–1819
FOUNDED THIS ACADEMY

Simon noticed, when he was high enough up the stairs to be able to look over the marble gentleman's shoulder, that someone had painted a picture of a pink pig wearing a blue bow on the marble canvas.

Opposite the top of the stairs he saw a door labeled "Principal." Rather timidly he knocked on it, and an impatient voice shouted, "Alors—entrez!"

Walking in, Simon found himself in a medium-sized room that was overpoweringly warm and smelt strongly of garlic and coffee and turpentine. The warmth came from two braziers full of glowing charcoal, on one of which a kettle steamed briskly. The room was so untidy—littered with stacks of canvases, baskets of fruit, wood carvings, strings of onions hanging from the ceiling, easels with pictures on them, statues—that at first Simon did not see the little man who had told him to come in. But after a moment the same irascible voice said, "Eh bien! Shut the door, if you please and declare yourself!"

"Are—are you Dr. Furnace, please, sir?" Simon said hesitantly.

"Furrneaux, if you please, Furrneaux—I cannot endure the English pronunciation."

Dr. Furnace or Furrneaux was hardly more than three feet six inches high, and extraordinarily whiskery. As he rose up from behind his desk he reminded Simon irresistibly of a prawn. His whiskers waved, his hands waved, a pair of snapping black eyes took in every inch of Simon from his dusty shoes to the kitten's face poking inquisitively out of his jacket.

"And so, and so?" Dr. Furrneaux said impatiently. "Who may you be?"

"If you please, sir, my name is Simon, and I believe Dr. Field spoke about me—"

"Ah, yes, Gabriel Field. A boy named Simon. Attendez—"

Dr. Furrneaux waved his antennae imperatively, darted over to a cupboard, returned with a coffeepot, tipped coffee into it from a blue paper bag, poured in hot water, produced cups from a tea chest and sugar from another blue paper bag.

"Now we wait a moment. A boy named Simon, yes. Gabriel Field mentioned you, yes. In a moment I shall see what you can do. You are hungry?" he said, looking sternly at Simon. "Take the bread off that brazier—zere, blockhead!—and find some plates and some butter. In ze brown jar, of course!" as Simon, bewildered, looked uncertainly about him. The brown earthenware jar resembled something from The Arabian Nights and could easily have held Ali Baba and a couple of thieves.

"So, now we eat," said Dr. Furrneaux, breaking eight inches off a loaf shaped like a rolling pin and handing it to Simon. "I will pour ze coffee in a moment. Tell me about my good friend Dr. Gabriel Field—how is it wiss him?"

"Dr. Field?" Simon stammered, absently taking a large bite of the crisp bread which flew into crumbs all round him, "but—haven't you seen him? I thought he would be here."

"Not since my jour-de-fête in July," said Dr. Furrneaux, carefully pouring coffee into two cups and handing one to Simon.

"But then, but—"

"He said you were to live wiss him. Are you not, then?"

"He seems to have moved. He is not at the address he sent—"

"Chose assez étonnante," Dr. Furrneaux muttered to himself. "Can Dr. Field be in debt? Escaping his creditors? Or in prison? He would have told me..."

"He wrote inviting me to come and live with him, sir," Simon said. "He would have said if he was planning to move—"

"Well, no doubt he has been called away on ze private affairs. He will return. One sing is certain, he will come back here. Now, you have eaten? Ze little one, he has eaten too?" Dr. Furrneaux nodded benevolently at the kitten which was licking up some crumbs of bread and butter from the dusty floor. "It is well. To work, zen! I wish to see you draw." He handed Simon a stick of charcoal.

"Yes, sir." Simon took the charcoal with a trembling hand. "Wh-where shall I draw?"

Dr. Furneaux's whiskered gaze roved round the room. There was not a clean canvas nor an empty space in it. "Draw on zat wall," the doctor said, waving at the wall to his right, which was invitingly bare and white.

"All over it, sir?"

"Of course."

"What shall I draw?"

"Oh—anysing you have seen in ze last few days."

As usual when Simon started drawing, he was rapt away into a world of his own. People knocked and entered and consulted Dr. Furrneaux, waited for assistance, went away again; some of them stared at Simon, others took no notice. Dr. Furrneaux himself came and went darting out to conduct a class, or back to criticize the efforts of a private pupil. At intervals he made more coffee, from time to time offered a cup of it—or a piece of bread, apple, grape, or sausage—to Simon. He ignored Simon's work, preferring, apparently, to wait till it was finished.

Toward noon a boy a little younger than Simon came in escorted by a tall, thin man.

"Mon dieu!" Dr. Furrneaux groaned to himself at sight of them. Then he stood up and waved them forward.

"My dear young Justin—my dearest friend's grandson! And the sage Mr. Buckle. Enchanté de vous voir. Mr. Buckle—do yourself ze kindness to sit down. Let us see what you have been working at ziss week, my dear Justin."

The boy did not speak, but hunched his shoulders and looked depressed, while the man addressed as Mr. Buckle—a sandy-haired, pale-eyed individual dressed in rusty black—laid a small pile of drawings on the desk.

Neither the man nor the boy took any notice of Simon, who observed that the boy looked positively ill with apprehension as Dr. Furrneaux examined his work. He was a sickly-looking lad, very richly dressed, but the olive-green velvet of his jacket went badly with his pale, spotty cheeks, and the plumed hat which he had taken off revealed lank, stringy hair.

It was plain that he wished himself a thousand miles away.

Dr. Furrneaux looked slowly and carefully through the pile of drawings. Once or twice he seemed about to burst out with some remark, but restrained himself; when he reached the last, however, his feelings became too much for him and he exploded with rage.

"How can you, how can you bring such stuff to show to me, Jean-Jacques Furrneaux, Principal of ze Rivière Academie? Zis, zis is what I sink of zese abominable drawings!"

With considerable difficulty he tore the whole batch across and across, scattering pieces of paper all about him, his whiskers quivering, his eyes snapping with rage. Although so small, he was a formidable spectacle. The boy, Justin, seemed ready to melt into the ground with terror as bits of paper flew like autumn leaves. Simon watched with awe and apprehension. If Dr. Furrneaux was so severe with a familiar pupil, grandson of an old friend, what was his own reception likely to be?

The only person who thoroughly enjoyed the scene was the kitten, who darted out and chased the fluttering scraps of paper around Dr. Furneaux's feet. The sight of him appeared to calm the fiery little principal. He stopped hissing and stamping, stared at the kitten, snapped his fingers, took several deep breaths, and walked briskly two or three times up and down the room, neatly avoiding all the obstacles. At last he said, "I have been too harsh. I do not mean to alarm you, my dear boy. No, no, I hope I treat my best friend's grandson better zan zat. But zere must, zere must be a painter hidden in ze grandson of Marius Rivière. We shall wr-rrench him out, n'est-ce-pas? Now—you shall draw somesing simple—"

His eye roamed about the room and lit on the kitten. "You shall draw zat cat! Of the most simple, no? Here—" He swept everything, plates, bread, papers, and ink off his desk in disorder, found a stack of clean paper, and beckoned to Justin. "Here, my dear boy. Here is charcoal, here is crayon. Now—draw! I shall return in two hours' time. Come, my dear Mr. Buckle, Justin will be easier if we leave him alone."

He took the arm of Mr. Buckle, who moved reluctantly toward the door.

"Who is that?" he asked sourly, pointing to the legs of Simon, who was lying on his stomach behind the Arabian Nights jar, drawing cobblestones.

"Zat?" Dr. Furrneaux shrugged. "Nobody. A boy from nowhere. He will not disturb Justin—his mind is engr-rossed in drawing."

The door closed behind them.

Simon felt sorry for Justin—it seemed unreasonable to expect the boy to be a painter just because his grandfather had been one and founded the Academy. People, surely did not always take after their grandfathers? Perhaps I'm lucky, Simon thought for the first time, not to know who my parents or grandparents were.

After working diligently for another half hour he stood up and stretched, to rest his cramped muscles. The kitten greeted him with a loud squeak of pleasure and ran up his leg. But the boy Justin took no notice—he was sitting at the desk, slumped forward with his face in his hands, the picture of dejection. He had not even started to draw.

"I say, cheer up," Simon said sympathetically. "It can't be as bad as that, surely?"

Justin hunched one shoulder away from him.

"Oh, you're all right," he said with the rudeness of misery. "Nobody cares how you draw. But just because my grandfather was a painter and started this place, everyone expects me to be wonderful. Why should I learn to paint? I'm going to be a duke. Dukes don't paint."

"I say, are you though?" Simon said with interest. "I've never met a duke."

"And I daresay you never will," Justin said listlessly. Just at that moment the kitten climbed across from Simon's leg to the desk and began playing with a ball of charcoal eraser. Justin made a rather hopeless attempt at sketching it, but it would not oblige him by staying still, and, after jabbing a few crude scrawls, he exclaimed furiously, "Oh, curse and confound the little brute!" and hurled the charcoal across the room. The kitten sat down at once and stared at him with large reproving eyes.

"Quick, now's your chance while he's still," Simon urged encouragingly. "Try again."

"I can't draw live things!" snapped Justin. "A kitten hasn't any shape, it's all fuzzy!" He angrily scribbled a matchstick cat—four legs, two ears, and a tail—then rubbed it out with his fist and drew the same fist over his eyes, leaving a damp, charcoaly smear on his cheek.

"No," said Simon patiently, "look at the kitten, look at its shape and then draw that—never mind if what you draw doesn't look like a cat. Here—" He picked up another bit of charcoal and, without taking the tip off the paper, quickly drew an outline—quite carelessly, it seemed, but Justin gasped as the shape of the kitten fairly leaped out of the paper. "I could never do that," he said with grudging admiration.

"Yes you could—try!"

Advising, coaxing, half guiding Justin's hand, Simon made him produce a rough, free drawing which was certainly a great deal better than his previous work.

"You ought to feel the kitten all over," Simon suggested. "Feel the way its bones go. It looks fluffy but it's not like a wig—it has a hard shape under the fur."

"I shall never be able to draw," Justin said pettishly. "Why should I? It's not my nature. Besides, it's not the occupation of a gentleman."

Simon opened his eyes wide.

"But drawing is one of the best things in the world! I can't think how you can live in London and not want to draw! Everything is so beautiful and so interesting I could be drawing forever. And it is so useful; it helps you to remember what you have seen."

He glanced toward his own picture on the wall and Justin's eyes followed listlessly. Not much was visible from where they stood, but a face could be seen, and Justin said at once, "Why, that's Dido Twite."

"Do you know her?" Simon was a little surprised that a future duke should be acquainted with such a guttersnipe.

"Buckle, my tutor, used to lodge with her family and we called there once," Justin said indifferently. "I thought her a vilely impertinent brat."

"I lodge there now," Simon explained.

"Will you help me some more?" Justin said. "I expect old Fur-nose may come back soon."

The kitten had settled again, and Simon helped Justin with more sketches.

"Don't rely on how you think it ought to look," he repeated patiently, over and over. "Ask your eyes and make them tell your hand—look, his legs bend this way, not the way you have them—" and, as Justin rubbed out his line and obediently redrew it, he asked, "Why did your tutor leave the Twite house? Where is he living now?"

"With me, at Battersea Castle," Justin said, bored. "My uncle (he's my guardian; my parents are dead) he arranged it. I'd been doing lessons with Buckle in the mornings, but now he lives in and works as my uncle's steward too, and I have him on top of me all day long, prosing and preaching about my duty as a future duke, and I hate it, hate it, hate it!"

He jabbed his charcoal angrily at the paper and it snapped. Simon was disappointed. He had hoped the reason why Buckle left the Twite household might give him some clue as to Dr. Field's departure. He was about to put a further question when they heard voices outside. With a hasty gesture Justin waved him back to his corner behind the big jar and laid a finger on his lips. The door opened and Dr. Furrneaux burst in briskly whiskers waving.

"Eh bien, well, let us see how you have been getting on!" he demanded, bustling around the desk to look at Justin's drawings.

"Pas mal!" he declared. "Pas mal du tout! You see-when you work wiss your head and do not merely s-scamp through ze drawing, all comes different! Ziss here, and ziss"—he poked at the sketches—"is a r-r-real artist's line. Here, not so good." Justin met his eyes nervously. "I am please wiss you, my boy, very please. Now I wish you to do some painting."

Justin turned pale at the idea, but Mr. Buckle, who had followed Dr. Furrneaux into the room, interposed hastily, "I am afraid that won't be possible today, Dr. Furrneaux. His Grace the Duke is expecting Lord Bakerloo to meet him at three on His Grace's barge to view the Chelsea Regatta."

"Barges—regattas," Dr. Furrneaux grumbled, "a true painter does not sink of anysing but painting! Eh bien, be off, zen, if you muss, but bring me more drawings—more, more!—and better zan zese, next time you come."

Justin and Mr. Buckle nipped quickly out of the room almost before Dr. Furrneaux had finished speaking. The little principal sat down at his desk, sighing heavily like a grampus.

Then the kitten, who had been investigating a dangling string of onions, managed to dislodge the whole lot and bring them crashing down onto himself. He bounded away, stiff-legged with fright. Simon burst out laughing.

"Tiens!" declared Dr. Furrneaux. "It is ze doctor's boy. I had forgotten you, mon gars. Voyons, what have you been doing all zis time?"

Simon scrambled up, dusting charcoal from his knees, and Dr. Furrneaux picked his way through the furniture until he could survey the whole drawing, which now occupied about seven square feet. Simon tried in vain to make out the doctor's reactions from his expression. Dr. Furrneaux looked at the picture carefully for about five minutes without saying a word; sometimes he scrutinized some detail with his whiskers almost touching the charcoal, sometimes he stepped back as far as possible to observe the picture from a distance.

Simon had drawn several scenes, one in front of the other. In the foreground was Dido Twite, perched on the donkey, her pert sparrow's looks contrasting with its sleepy expression as she urged it along Rose Alley. To the right lay Mr. Cobb's yard, full of broken coaches, with the beaming Mr. Cobb leaning against a wheel, about to sip his mug of Organ-Grinder's Oil, and his men hard at work behind him.

"Wiss whom have you studied drawing before?" Dr. Furrneaux asked sharply.

"With no one, sir. Dr. Field told me one or two things—that's all..."

Dr. Furrneaux continued to study the picture and now rapped out a series of fierce questions—why had Simon placed this object there, that figure here, why had he drawn the man's leg like this, the steps thus, the donkey like that?

"I don't know, sir," Simon kept saying in bewilderment. "It seemed as if it ought to go that way."

He was beginning to be afraid that Dr. Furrneaux must be angry when the little man amazed him by suddenly giving him a tremendous hug. Bristly whiskers nearly smothered him and the smell of garlic was overpowering.

"You are a good, good boy!" the doctor declared. "I am going to make a painter of you, but only if you work wiss every particle of yourself!"

"Yes, sir," Simon said faintly. All at once he felt excessively tired and hungry, his head ached, his arms and legs were stiff, he seemed to have been drawing in the stuffy room for half his lifetime.

"You will go now, you will come back tomorrow morning. Wiss you you will bring charcoal, brushes, oil paints—here, I give you ziss list—and palette. Zese sings you buy at one shop and at one shop only, zat is Bonnetiers in the King's Road."

"Yes, sir. How—how much will they cost?" Simon asked, doing feverish sums in his head, wondering how soon Mr. Cobb would pay him for his work, how much he would get, how late the paint shop stayed open.

Dr. Furrneaux looked at him sharply and said, "For ziss time, you pay nossing. Here, I give you ziss note to Madame Bonnetier—"

"Oh, thank you, thank you, sir! And my fees? How much—"

"Never mind zat for ze moment. We shall see, later. Now, go, go! Do you sink ze pr-r-rincipal of ze academie has nossing to do but talk to you all day?" Dr. Furrneaux plainly hated to be thanked. "Ah, bah, it is nossing, I too was once a poor ragged boy, II Take ze little one, too."

He grabbed the kitten, which was on his desk again, and held it out. As he did so his eye fell on Justin's drawings. He checked a moment, his mouth opened, then shut. He stared at Simon as if about to ask something, then evidently changed his mind, sighed, and gestured him to go.

"He knew," Simon said to himself. "He knew I'd been helping Justin. I wonder if he was angry?"