"Hang it under the lamp, old
man--I'll pay for the candles."
"I would," said Jack, gravely and in perfect seriousness, "only the
governor's allowance isn't due for a week, and the luncheon took my
last cent."
The next day, after business hours, Sam, in the goodness of his heart,
called to comfort Jack over the loss of the Monet--a loss as real to the
painter as if he had once possessed it--he _had_ in that first glance
through the window-pane; every line and tone and brush-mark was his own.
So great was Sam's sympathy for Jack, and his interest in the matter,
that he had called upon a real millionaire and had made an appointment
for him to come to Jack's studio that same afternoon, in the hope that
he would leave part of his wealth behind him in exchange for one of
Jack's masterpieces.
Sam found Jack flat on the floor, his back supported by a cushion
propped against the divan. He was gloating over a small picture, its
frame tilted back on the upright of his easel. It was the Monet!
"Did he loan it to you, old man?" Sam inquired.
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