stared hard at him, not at first quite understanding what he meant.

"The Old Master I can make best," continued Dick, "is Claude Lorraine,
whom you may have heard of occasionally as a famous painter of classical
landscapes. I don't exactly know (he has been dead so long) how many
pictures he turned out, from first to last; but we will say, for the
sake of argument, five hundred. Not five of these are offered for sale,
perhaps, in the course of five years. Enlightened collectors of old
pictures pour into the market by fifties, while genuine specimens of
Claude, or of any other Old Master you like to mention, only dribble
in by ones and twos. Under these circumstances, what is to be done? Are
unoffending owners of galleries to be subjected to disappointment?
Or are the works of Claude, and the other fellows, to be benevolently
increased in number, to supply the wants of persons of taste and
quality? No man of humanity but must lean to the latter alternative. The
collectors, observe, don't know anything about it--they buy Claude (to
take an instance from my own practice) as they buy all the other Old
Masters, because of his reputation, not because of the pleasure they get
from his works. Give them a picture with a good large ruin, fancy trees,
prancing nymphs, and a watery sky; dirty it down dexterously to the
right pitch; put it in an old frame; call it a Claude; and the sphere
of the Old Master is enlarged, the collector is delighted, the
picture-dealer is enriched, and the neglected modern artist claps a
joyful hand on a well-filled pocket. Some men have a knack at making
Rembrandts, others have a turn for Raphaels, Titians, Cuyps, Watteaus,
and the rest of them. Anyhow, we are all made happy--all pleased with
each other--all benefited alike. Kindness is propagated and money is
dispersed. Come along, my boy, and make an Old Master!"

CHAPTER V.

HE led the way into the street as he spoke. I felt the irresistible
force of his logic. I sympathized with the ardent philanthropy of his
motives. I burned with a noble ambition to extend the sphere of the Old
Masters. In short, I took the tide at the flood, and followed Dick.

We plunged into some by-streets, struck off sharp into a court, and
entered a house by a back door. A little old gentleman in a black velvet
dressing-gown met us in the passage. Dick instantly presented me: "Mr.
Frank Softly--Mr. Ishmael Pickup." The little old gentleman stared at
me distrustful