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“A child!” Cobden gasped.

“Well, no, sir,” the skipper declared, somewhat puzzled by Cobden’s agitation; “he was fourteen, an’ a lusty lad for his years.”

Cobden turned again to the picture; he stood in a frowning study of it.

“What’s up?” the skipper mildly asked.

“What’s up, eh?” says Cobden, grimly. “That’s a great picture, by heaven!” he cried. ” That’s what’s up.”

Skipper Tom laughed.

“She isn’t so bad, is she?” he admitted, with interest. “She sort o’ scares me by times. But she were meant t’ do that. An’ dang if I isn’t fond of her, anyhow!”

“Show me another,” says Cobden.

Skipper Tom sharply withdrew his interest from the picture.

“Isn’t another,” said he, curtly. “That was the last he done.”

“Dead!” Cobden exclaimed, aghast.

“Dead?” the skipper marveled. “Sure, no. He’ve gone an’ growed up.” He was then bewildered by Cobden’s relief.

Cobden faced the skipper squarely. He surveyed the genial fellow with curious interest.

“Skipper Tom,” said he, then, slowly, “you have a wonderful son.” He paused. “A–wonderful–son,” he repeated. He smiled; the inscrutable wonder of the thing had all at once gently amused him–the wonder that a genius of rarely exampled quality should have entered the world in the neighborhood of Out-of-the-Way Tickle, there abandoned to chance discovery of the most precarious sort. And there was no doubt about the quality of the genius. The picture proclaimed it; and the picture was not promise, but a finished work, in itself an achievement, most marvelously accomplished, moreover, without the aid of any tradition.

Terry Lute’s art was triumphant. Even the skeptical Cobden, who had damned so much in his day, could not question the lad’s mastery. It did not occur to him to question it.

Skipper Tom blinked at the painter’s wistful gravity. “What’s the row?” he stammered.

Cobden laughed heartily.

“It is hard to speak in a measured way of all this,” he went on, all at once grave again. “After all, perhaps, one guesses; and even the most cautious guesses go awry. I must not say too much. It is not the time, at any rate, to say much. Afterward, when I have spoken with this–this young master, then, perhaps. But I may surely say that the fame of Terry Lute will soon be very great.” His voice rose; he spoke with intense emphasis. “It will continue, it will grow. Terry Lute’s name will live”–he hesitated–“for generations.” He paused now, still looking into the skipper’s inquiring eyes, his own smiling wistfully. Dreams were already forming. “Skipper Tom,” he added, turning away, “you have a wonderful son.”

“Ay,” said the skipper, brows drawn; “an’ I knows it well enough.” He added absently, with deep feeling, “He’ve been– jus’ fair wonderful.”

“He shall learn what I can teach him.”

“In the way o’ sketchin’ off, sir?” There was quick alarm in this.

Cobden struck a little attitude. It seemed to him now to be a moment. He was profoundly moved. “Terry Lute,” he replied, “shall be–a master!”

“Mr. Cobden, sir,” Skipper Tom protested, his face in an anxious twist, “I’ll thank you t’ leave un alone.”

“I’ll make a man of him!” cried Cobden, grieved.

Skipper Tom smiled grimly. It was now his turn to venture a curious survey. He ran his eye over the painter’s slight body with twinkling amusement. “Will you, now?” he mused. “Oh, well, now,” he drawled, “I’d not trouble t’ do it an I was you. You’re not knowin’, anyhow, that he’ve not made a man of hisself. ‘Tis five year’ since he done that there damned sketch.” Then uneasily, and with a touch of sullen resentment: “I ‘low you’d best leave un alone, sir. He’ve had trouble enough as it is.”

“So?” Cobden flashed. “Already? That’s good.”

“It haven’t done no harm,” the skipper deliberated; “but–well, God knows I’d not like t’ see another young one cast away in a mess like that.”

Cobden was vaguely concerned. He did not, however, at the moment inquire. It crossed his mind, in a mere flash, that Skipper Tom had spoken with a deal of feeling. What could this trouble have been? Cobden forgot, then, that there had been any trouble at all.