Pausing, he looked about for an opponent upon whom he might pour the flood of his eloquence, but on all sides smiles greeted him. Undaunted, he rushed again to the charge. “A business man--what is he?” he demanded. “He succeeds by outwitting the little minds with which he comes in contact. A scientist is of more account--he pits his brains against the dull unresponsiveness of inanimate matter and a hundredweight of black iron he makes do the work of a hundred housewives. But an artist tests his brains against the greatest brains of all times; he stands upon the peak of life and hurls himself against the world. A girl from Parkertown who paints flowers upon dishes to be called an artist--ugh! Let me spew forth the thought! Let me cleanse my mouth! A man should have a prayer upon his lips who utters the word artist!” “Well, we can’t all be artists and the woman can paint flowers upon dishes for all I care,” spoke up Valmore, laughing good naturedly. “We can’t all paint pictures and write books.” “We do not want to be artists--we do not dare to be,” shouted Telfer, whirling and shaking his cane at Valmore. “You have a misunderstanding of the word.” He straightened his shoulders and threw out his chest and the boy standing beside the blacksmith threw up his chin, unconsciously imitating the swagger of the man. “I do not paint pictures; I do not write books; yet am I an artist,” declared Telfer, proudly. “I am an artist practising the most difficult of all arts--the art of living. Here in this western village I stand and fling my challenge to the world. ‘On the lip of not the greatest of you,’ I cry, ‘has life been more sweet.’” He turned from Valmore to the men upon the stone. “Make a study of my life,” he commanded. “It will be a revelation to you. With a smile I greet the morning; I swagger in the noontime; and in the evening, like Socrates of old, I gather a little group of you benighted villagers about me and toss wisdom into your teeth, striving to teach you judgment in the use of great words.” “You talk an almighty lot about yourself, John,” grumbled Freedom Smith, taking his pipe from his mouth. “The subject is complex, it is varied, it is full of charm,” Telfer answered, laughing. Taking a fresh supply of tobacco and paper from his pocket, he rolled and lighted a cigarette. His fingers no longer trembled. Flourishing his cane he threw back his head and blew smoke into the air. He thought that in spite of the roar of laughter that had greeted Freedom Smith’s comment, he had vindicated the honour of art and the thought made him happy.