But I ain't never had nothin' in my head like that. A
feller's got to have sumpin' besides school-larnin' to draw like him.
Now you're a sketch-artist, and know. Why, he drawed de Sheriff last
Sunday sittin' in de porch huggin' his bitters, to de life. Say, Bowse,
show de gentleman de picter ye drawed of de Sheriff."
Bowser slipped his hand under the bar and brought out a charcoal sketch
of a black mustache surrounded by a pair of cheeks, a treble chin, and
two dots of eyes.
"Kin hear him speak, can't ye? And dat ain't nothin' to de way he kin
print. Say, Bowse"--the intimacy grew as the young man's talents loomed
up in Muffles's mind--"tell de gentleman what de boss said 'bout yer
printin'."
"Said I could print all right, only there warn't no more work." There
was a modesty in Bowser's tone that gave me a better opinion of him.
"Said ye could print all right, did he? Course he did--and no guff in
it, neither. Say, Missus"--and he turned to his wife, who had just
come in, the youngest child in her arms.
Pages:
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343