He expressed an interest in art. He gave a pious and proper view of the nude in art. It took some time. It was the sort of chilly, cautious talk that could not possibly bring a blush to the cheek of ignorance. I assured him his decorous concessions were unnecessary. I was not expounding the nude. There was an artist here, and Asheville needed no further instruction of the kind, he maintained. The gentleman had won some blue ribbons in Europe. He painted a big picture (dimensions were given) and sold it for thousands (price was given). “He is holding the next one, two feet longer each way, for double the money.” I told him if he felt there was enough art in Asheville, we might do something to popularize the poets. In reply he talked about literary cranks. He spoke of how Thoreau, with his long hair and ugly looks, frightened strangers who suddenly met him in the woods. I thanked him for light on Thoreau.... But he had to admit that my hair was short. He suspected I was neither artist nor literary man. I assured him my friends were often of the same opinion. “But,” he said bitterly, “do you know sir, by the tone of letters I received from Mr. Powlison I expected to assemble the wealth and fashion of Asheville to hear you. I expected to see you first in your private car, wearing a dress-suit.” I answered sternly, “Art, my friend, does not travel in a Pullman.” He threw off all restraint. “Old shoes,” he said, “old shoes.” He pointed at them. “I have walked two hundred miles among the moonshiners. They wear brogans like these.” But his manner plainly said that his organization did not need cranks climbing over the mountains to tell them things. “Your New York letter did not say you were walking. It said you ‘would arrive.’” He began to point again. “Frayed trousers! And the lining of your coat in rags!” “I took the lining of the coat for necessary patches.” “A blue bandanna round your neck!” “To protect me from sunburn.” He rose and hit the table. “And no collar!” “Oh yes, I have a collar.” I drew it from my hip pocket. It had had a two hundred mile ride, and needed a bath. “I should like to have it laundered, but I haven’t the money.” “_Get_ the money.” “No,” I said, “but I will get a collar.” I entered a furnishing and tailor shop around the corner. I asked for the proprietor. He showed me collars. “Two for a quarter?” “Yes.” “Now I have here a little brochure I sell for twenty-five cents. In fact it is a poem, well worth the money. I will let you have it for half price, that is, one collar.” “We are selling collars.” “I am selling the poem.” I turned my Ancient Mariner eye on him. I recited the most mesmeric rhymes. He repeated, “We are selling collars.” Evidently the eye was out of order. I tried argument. “Don’t you think I need a collar?” “Yes.” “Don’t you think this one would fit this shirt?” “Yes.” “I renew my offer.” He sternly put the box away.