r Jonah ... Yes, and that's my inkhorn. I made
the four silver saints round it. Press Barnabas's head. It opens, and
then--'He dipped the trimmed pen, and with careful boldness began to
put in the essential lines of Puck's rugged face, that had been but
faintly revealed by the silver-point.

The children gasped, for it fairly leaped from the page.

As he worked, and the rain fell on the tiles, he talked--now clearly,
now muttering, now breaking off to frown or smile at his work. He told
them he was born at Little Lindens Farm, and his father used to beat
him for drawing things instead of doing things, till an old priest
called Father Roger, who drew illuminated letters in rich people's
books, coaxed the parents to let him take the boy as a sort of
painter's apprentice. Then he went with Father Roger to Oxford, where
he cleaned plates and carried cloaks and shoes for the scholars of a
College called Merton.

'Didn't you hate that?' said Dan after a great many other questions.

'I never thought on't. Half Oxford was building new colleges or
beautifying the old, and she had called to her aid the master-craftsmen
of all Christendie--kings in their trade and honoured of Kings. I knew
them. I worked for them: that was enough. No wonder--' He stopped
and laughed.

'You became a great man, Hal,' said Puck.

'They said so, Robin. Even Bramante said so.'

'Why? What did you do?' Dan asked.

The artist looked at him queerly. 'Things in stone and such, up and
down England. You would not have heard of 'em. To come nearer home, I
rebuilded this little St Barnabas' church of ours. It cost me more
trouble and sorrow than aught I've touched in my life. But 'twas a
sound lesson.'

'Um,' said Dan. 'We've had lessons this morning.'

'I'll not afflict ye, lad,' said Hal, while Puck roared. 'Only 'tis
strange to think how that little church was rebuilt, re-roofed, and
made glorious, thanks to some few godly Sussex ironmasters, a Bristow
sailor lad, a proud ass called Hal o' the Draft because, d'you see, he
was always drawing and drafting; and'--he dragged the words
slowly--'and a Scotch pirate.'

'Pirate?' said Dan. He wriggled like a hooked fish.

'Even that Andrew Barton you were singing of on the stair just now.'
He dipped again in the inkwell, and held his breath over a sweeping
line, as though he had forgotten everything else.

'Pirates don't build churches, do they?' said Dan. 'Or do they?'

'They