“Hold your tongues, both of you!” cried Mr. Blyth. “I insist on clearing up that disputed point about whether artists are not just as hardy and strong as other men. I’m an artist myself, and I say they are. I’ll agree with you in everything else; for you’re the two best fellows in the world; but if you say a word against artists, I’m your enemy for life. You may talk to me, by the hour together about admirals, generals, and prime ministers--I mention the glorious names of Michael Angelo and Raphael; and down goes your argument directly. When Michael Angelo’s nose was broken do you think he minded it? Look in his Life, and see if he did--that’s all! Ha! ha! My painting-room is forty feet long (now this is an important proof). While I was painting Columbus and the Golden Age, one was at one end--north; and the other at the other--south. Very good. I walked backwards and forwards between those two pictures incessantly; and never sat down all day long. This is a fact--and the proof is, that I worked on both of them at once. A touch on Columbus--a walk into the middle of the room to look at the effect--turn round--walk up to The Golden Age opposite--a touch on The Golden Age--another walk into the middle of the room to look at the effect-another turn round--and back again to Columbus. Fifteen miles a-day of in-door exercise, according to the calculation of a mathematical friend of mine; and _not_ including the number of times I had to go up and down my portable wooden steps to get at the top parts of Columbus. Isn’t a man hardy and strong who can stand that? Ha! ha! Just feel my legs, Zack. Are they hard and muscular, or are they not?” Here Mr. Blyth, rapping young Thorpe smartly on the head with his spoon, tried to skip out of his chair as nimbly as usual; but only succeeded in floundering awkwardly into an upright position, after he had knocked down his plate with all the greasy remains of the liver and bacon on it. Zack roused himself from muddled meditation with a start; and, under pretense of obeying his friend’s injunction, pinched Valentine’s leg with such vigorous malice, that the painter fairly screamed again under the infliction. All this time Mat sat immovably serene in his place next to the fire. He just kicked Mr. Blyth’s broken plate, with the scraps of liver and bacon, and the knife and fork that had fallen with them, into the temporary storeroom under the table--and then pushed towards him another glass of the squaw’s mixture, quietly concocted while he had been talking.