Thus the days sped and grew shorter as December waned. Then, at the end of
the second week of his work, Noy chanced to read that an Exhibition at the
Institute of Painters in Oils was about to close; and not yet having
visited that collection he set out on the morning of the following day to
do so.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"JOE'S SHIP"
According to his custom, Noy worked through the exhibition catalogue for
each room before entering it. The hour was an early one, and but few
persons had as yet penetrated to the central part of the gallery. For
these, however, an experience of a singular character was now in store.
Wandering hither and thither in groups and talking in subdued voices after
the manner of persons in such a place, all were suddenly conscious of a
loud inarticulate cry. The sudden volume of sound denoted mixed emotions,
but amazement and grief were throned upon it, and the exclamation came from
a man standing now stiff and spellbound before "Joe's Ship," the famous
masterpiece of John Barron. The beholders viewed an amazed figure which
seemed petrified even to an expression on his face. There are countenances
which display the ordinary emotions of humanity in a fashion unusual and
peculiar to themselves. Thus, while the customary and conventional signs of
sorrow are a down-drawing slant to the corners of mouth and eye, yet it
sometimes happens that the lines more usually associated with gratification
are donned in grief. Of this freakish character was the face of Joe Noy.
His muscles seemed to follow the bones underneath them; and now beholding
him, the surprised spectators saw a man of gigantic proportions
gigantically moved. Yet, while sorrow was discernible in his voice, the
corners of his mouth were dragged up till his lips resembled a half-moon on
its back, and the lids and corners of his eyes were full of laughter
wrinkles, while the eyes themselves were starting and agonized. The man's
catalogue had fallen to the ground; his hands were clinched; now, as others
watched him, he came step by step nearer to the picture.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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