cceeded. The portrait of Mr. Batterbury (much
the more carefully-painted picture of the two) was summarily turned out.
The Portrait of a Nobleman was politely reserved to be hung up, if the
Royal Academicians could possibly find room for it. They could not.
So that picture also vanished back into the obscurity of the artist's
easel. Weak and well-meaning people would have desponded under these
circumstances; but your genuine Rogue is a man of elastic temperament,
not easily compressible under any pressure of disaster. I sent the
portrait of Mr. Batterbury to the house of that distinguished patron,
and the Portrait of a Nobleman to the Pawnbroker's. After this I had
plenty of elbow-room in the studio, and could walk up and down briskly,
smoking my pipe, and thinking about what I should do next.

I had observed that the generous friend and vagabond brother artist,
whose lodger I now was, never seemed to be in absolute want of money;
and yet the walls of his studio informed me that nobody bought his
pictures. There hung all his great works, rejected by the Royal Academy,
and neglected by the patrons of Art; and there, nevertheless, was he,
blithely plying the brush; not rich, it is true, but certainly never
without money enough in his pocket for the supply of all his modest
wants. Where did he find his resources? I determined to ask him the
question the very next time he came to the studio.

"Dick," I said (we called each other by our Christian names), "where do
you get your money?"

"Frank," he answered, "what makes you ask that question?"

"Necessity," I proceeded. "My stock of money is decreasing, and I
don't know how to replenish it. My pictures have been turned out of the
exhibition-rooms; nobody comes to sit to me; I can't make a farthing;
and I must try another line in the Arts, or leave your studio. We are
old friends now. I've paid you honestly week by week; and if you can
oblige me, I think you ought. You earn money somehow. Why can't I?"

"Are you at all particular?" asked Dick.

"Not in the least," I answered.

Dick nodded, and looked pleased; handed me my hat, and put on his own.

"You are just the sort of man I like," he remarked, "and I would sooner
trust you than any one else I know. You ask how I contrive to earn
money, seeing that all my pictures are still in my own possession. My
dear fellow, whenever my pockets are empty, and I want a ten-pound note
to put into them, I make an Old Master."

I