“Because she is a very good old lady, I don't see why she should be fined,” observed Myner. “What do you mean by that?” I cried. “I mean this,” said he. “The French give a great deal of credit amongst themselves; they find it pays on the whole, or the system would hardly be continued; but I can't see where WE come in; I can't see that it's honest of us Anglo-Saxons to profit by their easy ways, and then skip over the Channel or (as you Yankees do) across the Atlantic.” “But I'm not proposing to skip,” I objected. “Exactly,” he replied. “And shouldn't you? There's the problem. You seem to me to have a lack of sympathy for the proprietors of cabmen's eating-houses. By your own account you're not getting on: the longer you stay, it'll only be the more out of the pocket of the dear old lady at your lodgings. Now, I'll tell you what I'll do: if you consent to go, I'll pay your passage to New York, and your railway fare and expenses to Muskegon (if I have the name right) where your father lived, where he must have left friends, and where, no doubt, you'll find an opening. I don't seek any gratitude, for of course you'll think me a beast; but I do ask you to pay it back when you are able. At any rate, that's all I can do. It might be different if I thought you a genius, Dodd; but I don't, and I advise you not to.” “I think that was uncalled for, at least,” said I. “I daresay it was,” he returned, with the same steadiness. “It seemed to me pertinent; and, besides, when you ask me for money upon no security, you treat me with the liberty of a friend, and it's to be presumed that I can do the like. But the point is, do you accept?” “No, thank you,” said I; “I have another string to my bow.” “All right,” says Myner. “Be sure it's honest.” “Honest? honest?” I cried. “What do you mean by calling my honesty in question?” “I won't, if you don't like it,” he replied. “You seem to think honesty as easy as Blind Man's Buff: I don't. It's some difference of definition.” I went straight from this irritating interview, during which Myner had never discontinued painting, to the studio of my old master. Only one card remained for me to play, and I was now resolved to play it: I must drop the gentleman and the frock-coat, and approach art in the workman's tunic. “Tiens, this little Dodd!” cried the master; and then, as his eye fell on my dilapidated clothing, I thought I could perceive his countenance to darken. I made my plea in English; for I knew, if he were vain of anything, it was of his achievement of the island tongue. “Master,” said I, “will you take me in your studio again? but this time as a workman.” “I sought your fazer was immensely reech,” said he. I explained to him that I was now an orphan and penniless. He shook his head. “I have betterr workmen waiting at my door,” said he, “far betterr workmen. “You used to think something of my work, sir,” I pleaded.