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We were all on our feet now examining the sketches–all running-brook studies–most of them made in that same pair of high-water boots. No one but the late Fritz Thaulow approaches him in giving the reality of this most difficult subject for an outdoor painter. The ocean surf repeats itself in its recurl and swash and by close watching a painter has often a chance to use his “second barrel,” so to speak, but the upturned face of an unruly brook-is not only million-tinted and endless in its expression, but so sensitive in its reflections that every passing cloud and patch of blue above it saddens or cheers it.

“Yes, painting water is enough to drive you mad,” burst out Knight, “but I don’t intend to paint anything else–not for years, any way. Hired the mill so I could paint the water running away from you downhill. That’s going to take a good many years to get hold of, but I’m going to stick it out. I can’t always paint it from the banks, not if I want to study the middle ripples at my feet, and these are the ones that run out of your canvas just above your name-plate. Got to stand in it, I tell you. Then you get the drawing, and the drawing is what counts. Oh, I love it!” Knight stretched his big arms and legs and sprang from his chair.

“Really, fellows, I don’t know anything about it. All I do is to let myself go. I always feel more than I see, and so my brush has a devil of a job to keep up. Marie! Marie!”

Had the good woman been a mile down the brook she could have heard him–she was only in the next room. “Bring in the boots–two pairs this time–we’re going fishing. And, Marie–has the chauffeur had anything to eat?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Anything to drink?”

“No, monsieur.”

“What! Hand him this,” and he grabbed a half-empty bottle from the table.

I sprang forward and caught it before Marie got her fingers around it.

“Not if I know it!” I cried. “We’ve got to get back to Dives. When he lands me inside my garden at the inn he shall have a magnum, but not a drop till he does.”

*****

When the two had gone the Sculptor and I leaned back in our chairs and lighted fresh cigars. My enthusiasm has not cooled for the sports of my youth. With a comfortable stool, a well-filled basket, and a long jointed rod, I, like many another staid old painter, can still get an amazing amount of enjoyment watching a floating cork, but I didn’t propose to follow those two lunatics. I knew the Man from the Quarter–had known him from the day of his birth–and knew what he would do and where he would go (over his head sometimes) for a poor devil of a fish half as long as his finger, and I had had positive evidence of what the other web-footed duck thought of ice-cold water. No, I’d take a little sugar in mine, if you please, and put a drop of–but the Sculptor had already foreseen and was then forestalling my needs, so we leaned back in our chairs once more.

Again the talk covered wide reaches.

“Great boy, Knight,” broke out the Sculptor in a sudden burst of enthusiasm over his friend. “You ought to see him handle a crowd when he’s at work. He knows the French people–never gets mad. He bought a calf for Marie last week, and drove it home himself. Told me it had ten legs, four heads, and twenty tails before he got it here. Old woman lost hers and Knight bought her another–he’d bring her a herd if she wanted it. All the way from the market the boys kept up a running fire of criticism. When the ringleader came too near, Knight sprang at him with a yelp like a dog’s. The boy was so taken aback that he ran. Then Knight roared with laughter, and in an instant the whole crowd were his friends–two of them helped him get the calf out of town. When a French crowd laughs with you you can do anything with them. He had had more fun bringing home that calf, he told me, than he’d had for weeks, and he’s a wonder at having a good time.”