“No,” quoth mine host, “for it is already sold, and even partly paid for in advance. However, if monsieur wishes to come to an arrangement about it, it is with me that he must treat.” “Not at all, not at all,” rejoined the Flemish painter of signs, “it belongs to me. My fellow-artist here gave me a little help out of friendship; but the picture is my lawful property, and I am at liberty to sell it to any one I please.” “What roguery!” exclaimed the innkeeper, “My Rising Sun is my property; fastened on the wall of my house. How can it belong to anybody else. Isn’t it painted on my boards. No one but myself has the smallest right to it.” “I’ll summon you before the magistrate,” cried he who had _not_ painted the sign. “I’ll prosecute you for breach of covenant,” retorted the innkeeper who had half paid for it. “One moment!” interposed another energetic voice, that of the interloper; “it seems to me that _I_ ought to have some little vote in this business.” “Quite right, brother,” answered the painter. “Instead of disputing on the public road, let us go into Master Martzen’s house, and arrange the matter amicably over a bottle or two of beer.” To this all parties agreed, but I am sorry to say they agreed in nothing else; for within doors, the dispute was carried on with deafening confusion and energy. The Flemings contended for the possession of the painting, and the Englishman repeated his offer to cover it with gold. “But suppose that _I_ don’t choose to have it sold?” said its real author. “Oh, my dear monsieur,” said the innkeeper, “I am certain you would not wish to deprive an honest poor man, who can scarcely make both ends meet, of this windfall. Why, it would just enable me to lay in a good stock of wine and beer.” “Don’t believe him, brother,” cried the painter, “he is an old miser. I am the father of a family; and being a painter, you ought to help a brother artist, and give me the preference. Besides, I am ready to share the money with you.” “He!” said Master Martzen. “Why, he’s an old spendthrift, who has no money left to give his daughter as a marriage portion, because he spends all he gets on himself.” “No such thing; my Susette is betrothed to an honest, young French cabinet-maker; who, poor as she is, will marry her next September.” “A daughter to portion!” exclaimed the stranger artist; “that quite alters the case. I am content that the picture should be sold for a marriage portion. I leave it to our English friend’s generosity to fix the sum.” “I have already offered,” replied the best bidder, “one hundred guineas for the sketch just as it is: I will gladly give two hundred for it if the painter will consent to sign it in the corner with two words.” “What words?” exclaimed all the disputants at once. The Englishman replied, “Pierre David.”