ove Blackie forth. Already
many of the faithful had gathered at the site of the Blakeville
Etruscan Studios in anticipation of the great Matteo's coming, and
when the tall, black-eyed Italian jumped out of the buggy they fairly
quivered with gratified curiosity. How well he looked the part! If
only he had had long hair! The eyes of the world-famous Italian
ceramic expert, however, were not for the assembled denizens of
Blakeville; they were only for that long and eagerly desired deposit
of Etruscan soil. He leaped from the buggy; he dashed through the gap
in the fence; he rushed to the side of that black swamp, the edges of
which had evaporated now until they were but a sticky mass, and said:

"Oh, da g-r-r-a-a-n-da mod!"

Forthwith, disregarding his cuffs, disregarding his rings,
disregarding everything, he plunged both his white hands into that
sticky mass and brought them up dripping-full of that precious
material--the genuine, no, better than genuine, Etruscan black mud!

A cheer broke out from assembled Blakeville. This surely was artistic
frenzy! This surely was the emotional temperament! This surely was the
manner in which the great Italian black-pottery expert _should_ act in
the first sight of his beloved black mud!

"Da gr-r-r-r-r-a-a-n-da mod!" he repeated over and over, and drew it
close to his face that he might inspect it with a near and loving eye.

One might almost have thought that he was about to kiss it, to bury
his nose in it; one almost expected him to jump into that pond and
wallow in it, his joy at seeing it was so complete.

It was J. Rufus Wallingford himself who, catching the contagion of
this superb fervor, ran to the pail of drinking-water kept for the
foundation workmen, and brought it to the great artist. J. Rufus
himself poured water upon the great artist's hands until those hands
were free of their Etruscan coating, and with his own immaculate
handkerchief he dried those deft and skilful fingers, while the great
Italian potter looked up into the face of his business manager with
almost tears in his eyes!

It was a wonderful scene, one never to be forgotten, and in the
enthusiasm of that psychological moment Mrs. Moozer rushed forward.
Mrs. Moozer, acting president of the Women's Culture Club in the
absence of Miss Forsythe, saw here a glorious opportunity; here was
where she could "put one over" upon that all-absorptive young lady.

"My dear Mr. Wallingford, you must introduce me