“It accounts for it all—all—there’s something divine about his art,—soulful, unsatisfactory, yearning, dim hearkening on the void horizon, vague—murmuring to the spirit out of ultra-marine distances and far-sounding cataclysms of uncreated space—oh, if he—if, he—has he ever tried distemper?” The captain answered up with energy: “Not if he knows himself! But his dog has, and—” “Oh, no, it vas not _my_ dog.” “Why, you _said_ it was your dog.” “Oh, no, gaptain, I—” “It was a white dog, wasn’t it, with his tail docked, and one ear gone, and—” “Dot’s him, dot’s him!—der fery dog. Wy, py Chorge, dot dog he would eat baint yoost de same like—” “Well, never mind that, now—‘vast heaving—I never saw such a man. You start him on that dog and he’ll dispute a year. Blamed if I haven’t _seen_ him keep it up a level two hours and a half.” “Why captain!” said Barrow. “I guess that must be hearsay.” “No, sir, no hearsay about it—he disputed with me.” “I don’t see how you stood it.” “Oh, you’ve got to—if you run with Andy. But it’s the only fault he’s got.” “Ain’t you afraid of acquiring it?” “Oh, no,” said the captain, tranquilly, “no danger of that, I reckon.” The artists presently took their leave. Then Barrow put his hands on Tracy’s shoulders and said: “Look me in the eye, my boy. Steady, steady. There—it’s just as I thought—hoped, anyway; _you’re_ all right, thank goodness. Nothing the matter with your mind. But don’t do that again—even for fun. It isn’t wise. They wouldn’t have believed you if you’d _been_ an earl’s son. Why, they _couldn’t_—don’t you know that? What ever possessed you to take such a freak? But never mind about that; let’s not talk of it. It was a mistake; you see that yourself.” “Yes—it _was_ a mistake.” “Well, just drop it out of your mind; it’s no harm; we all make them. Pull your courage together, and don’t brood, and don’t give up. I’m at your back, and we’ll pull through, don’t you be afraid.” When he was gone, Barrow walked the floor a good while, uneasy in his mind. He said to himself, “I’m troubled about him. He never would have made a break like that if he hadn’t been a little off his balance. But I know what being out of work and no prospect ahead can do for a man. First it knocks the pluck out of him and drags his pride in the dirt; worry does the rest, and his mind gets shaky. I must talk to these people. No—if there’s any humanity in them—and there is, at bottom—they’ll be easier on him if they think his troubles have disturbed his reason. But I’ve _got_ to find him some work; work’s the only medicine for his disease. Poor devil! away off here, and not a friend.” CHAPTER XVII.