“Why, nothing,” said Benedict, “only I’d stay in the city all summer before I’d borrow money to go away. I’d be too independent.” “Independent, poppycock,” said Tom. “We’re told to let independence be our boast, but we’re also told that it’s wrong to boast. So it’s wrong to boast of independence. No man can be independent in this world. He relies on one man to bring him into the world and on another to bury him, and all the time he’s here he’s relying on one person or another. The only thing is for him to accept help and be willing _to_ help. That’s all,” Tom laughed. “Sermon’s over. Collection will now be taken up to bring those two babes to the place where they can make bread for next winter. No, sir. You, Phil, can _not_ contribute. This hard-as-nails Benedict, who thinks he’s made his own way, and who has been helped all along by our free institutions, will chip in, and so will old Crœsus when he comes back from his horseback ride with Cherry.” He paused. “Sibthorp ought to learn to ride.” Benedict’s hand went down into his pocket and brought out a bill. “Now, see here,” said Tom. “I don’t want you to have the idea that you’re doing a charitable act, for you’re not. Those boys are going to give us a couple of sketches before they go back, and we’ll sell them for more than ten dollars and refund pro rata. Will that satisfy your sordid business soul?” Benedict drew off and gave Tom a friendly punch. They were always insulting each other, having been friends for years, and both of them members of the Olla Podrida Club, which, by the way, is an association of artists and men interested in art. Benedict buys a picture once in a while and, according to Tom, when he relies on the advice of an artist friend, he gets a good one. When he relies on his own judgment he gets something that provides no end of amusement to all the artists except the one who painted the picture. “I want none of your impudence, Tom,” said he, and then Minerva interrupted. It seems as if Minerva were always interrupting and generally with a shriek. “Oh, Lawdy! Lawdy! there’s a big worm in the kitchen!” cried she as she came running out of the sitting room to where we were standing. “Worms can’t hurt you, Minerva,” said Tom. “Go get a bird and see him catch the worm.” “Oh, my! but this worm would eat any bird I ever saw. It’s that long.” She showed how long it was, and Tom said, “Why, it must be a snake.” We men ran into the kitchen, and there, sure enough, was a little green snake about a foot long and frightened in every inch.