Page:The Black Camel (IA blackcamel0000earl).djvu/162

“Yeah,” repeated Frank idly.

“You know, Frank, painters without half my skill—oh, hell, what’s the use? Why should I complain? Look at Corot, Frank. Not one of his pictures was sold during his lifetime. Look at Manet. You know what the critics did to Manet? They laughed at him.”

“Yeah,” continued Frank. He threw down his guitar, leaped to his feet and, running across the sand, dove like a fish into two feet of water. Smith looked after him. He shook his head.

“No interest in painting,” he muttered. “Just music. Well, that’s something.” He put the bill in his pocket, tucked the canvas under his arm, and went out to the street.

A trolley was approaching, bound for the city, and Smith swung aboard. He offered the dollar proudly—after this, perhaps, the conductor would not judge every one by his clothes. Once or twice, on the way into town, he looked again at his painting. His opinion of it grew even better.

At a lunch room in town he treated himself to a breakfast such as he had not known in several days, then moved on to the Waioli Hotel. His entrance there evoked no great enthusiasm. The clerk stared at him with open disapproval. “What do you want?” he inquired coldly.

“Mr. Fyfe stopping here?” the beach-comber asked.

“He is—but he sleeps late. I can’t disturb him.”

“You'd better disturb him.” There was a sudden note of authority in Smith’s voice. “I’ve an appointment—very important. Mr. Fyfe wants to see me more than I want to see him.”