“That’s more like it,” said Mr. Cole. “Now, if you’ll just sit here in this chair. That’s it. Could you turn your head a little more toward the side? Just make believe that you are very much interested in something that’s going on across the river. That’s it! Fine! Just hold it that way for a few minutes; not too stiff, or you’ll tire the muscles. Now the hands--there, just folded loosely in the lap. That’s stunning! Hm!” He backed away toward his easel, observing her through half-closed eyes. “Now you must forgive me if I’m not very entertaining, for I’m liable to forget my duties as host when I get at work. But you might talk to me, if you like, and tell me about yourself. I suppose you have a pretty good time living at a big boys’ school as you do?” His voice trailed off into a murmur and Harry could hear the soft sound of the charcoal on the canvas, although, as her head was turned away, she could not see the rapid, deft strokes of his hand. It wasn’t hard for Harry to talk, and here was a fine opportunity. So she made the most of it for some little time, the artist throwing in an occasional word or question which, if not always especially apropos, encouraged the sitter to continue. But finally Harry noticed that the replies had ceased and so she allowed the one-sided conversation to lapse. She was getting rather tired of looking at the shore, across the dazzling river, and her neck was beginning to feel stiff; also her hands simply wouldn’t keep still in her lap. Unconsciously she emitted a deep sigh and the man at the easel heard it, looked up quickly, smiled, and: [Illustration: Harry sitting for her portrait] “Rest, please,” he said. “Walk around a minute and have some more candy.” “Could I see it?” asked Harry as she obeyed. But the artist shook his head. “There’s nothing to see yet,” he replied. “You’d be disappointed and perhaps throw up your job or demand higher wages. Wait until the sitting’s over.” As he talked and as Harry strolled around the deck, not forgetting to return at frequent intervals to the box on the table, he worked on at the canvas, shooting little glances at her and painting rapidly. “I’m rested now,” said Harry presently. “Shall I sit down again?” “Please, and take the same position. That’s it, only please lean the body a little further back. Thank you. Just a little while longer now.” Then silence fell over the _Jolly Roger_ again, broken by the movements of the painter or the lazy stirring of Jack on the deck below. The sun crept upward and the heat grew. After all, reflected Harry, it wasn’t such good fun, this sitting for your picture! She knew she would have a headache pretty soon if he didn’t let her go. She wished Roy and Dick and Chub would come, as they had promised, and set her free. She closed her tired eyes against the blur of the sunlit water, but: “The eyes, please, Miss Emery,” said the artist. “Thank you.” Another period of silence, and then: