ion-soaked brush toward a long, low, log
building.

"In that structure," he said, "are packed one thousand and ninety-five
paintings--all signed by me. I have executed one or two every day since I
came here. When I have painted exactly ten thousand pictures, no more, no
less, I shall erect here a gallery large enough to contain them all.

"Only real lovers of art will ever come here to study them. It is five
hundred miles from the railroad. Therefore, I shall never have to endure
the praises of the dilettante, the patronage of the idler, the vapid
rhapsodies of the vulgar. Only those who understand will care to make the
pilgrimage."

He waved his brushes at me:

"The conservation of national resources is all well enough--the setting
aside of timber reserves, game preserves, bird refuges, all these
projects are very good in a way. But I have dedicated this wilderness
as a last and only refuge in all the world for true Art! Because
true Art, except for my pictures, is, I believe, now practically
extinct!... You're in my way. Would you mind getting out?"

I had sidled around between him and his bowl of nasturtiums, and I
hastily stepped aside. He squinted at the flowers, mixed up a flamboyant
mess of colour on his palette, and daubed away with unfeigned
satisfaction, no longer noticing me until I started to go. Then:

"What is it you're here for, anyway?" he demanded abruptly. I said with
dignity:

"I am here to investigate those huge rings of earth thrown up in the
forest as by a gigantic mole." He continued to paint for a few moments:

"Well, go and investigate 'em," he snapped. "I'm not infatuated with your
society."

"What do you think they are?" I asked, mildly ignoring his wretched
manners.

"I don't know and I don't care, except, that sometimes when I begin to
paint several trees, the very trees I'm painting are suddenly heaved up
and tilted in every direction, and all my work goes for nothing. _That_
makes me mad! Otherwise, the matter has no interest for me."

"But what in the world could cause--"

"I don't know and I don't care!" he shouted, waving palette and brushes
angrily. "Maybe it's an army of moles working all together under the
ground; maybe it's some species of circular earthquake. I don't know! I
don't care! But it annoys me. And if you can devise any scientific means
to stop it, I'll be much obliged to you. Otherwise, to be perfectly
frank, you bore me."

"The mission of Science," said