comment on this fairly simple statement.

"He will give me breakfast early in the morning."

"Hm!"

"'Tis but a few hours to spend in lonely communion with nature."

"Hm!"

"The cathedral clock has struck three, at seven my good Hals will ply me
with hot ale and half his hunk of bread and cheese."

"Hals?" queried Socrates.

"Frans Hals," replied Diogenes; "he paints pictures and contrives to
live on the proceeds. If his wife does not happen to throw me out, he
will console me for the discomforts of this night."

"Bah!" ejaculated Pythagoras in disgust, "a painter of pictures!"

"And a brave man when he is sober."

"With a scold for a wife! Ugh! what about your playing the part of a
gentleman now?"

"The play was short, O wise Pythagoras," retorted Diogenes with
imperturbable good humour, "the curtain has already come down upon the
last act. I am once more a knave, a merchant ready to flatter the
customer who will buy his wares: Hech there, sir, my lord! what are your
needs? My sword, my skin, they are yours to command! so many guilders,
sir, and I will kill your enemy for you, fight your battles, abduct the
wench that pleases you. So many guilders! and when they are safely in my
pocket I can throw my glove in your face lest you think I have further
need of your patronage."

"'Tis well to brag," muttered Pythagoras, "but you'll starve with cold
this night."

"But at dawn I'll eat a hearty breakfast offered me by my friend Frans
Hals for the privilege of painting my portrait."

"Doth he really paint thy portrait, O handsome Diogenes?" said
Pythagoras unctuously.

"Aye! thou ugly old toad. He has begun a new one, for which I have
promised to sit. I'll pay for the breakfast he gives me, by donning a
gorgeous gold embroidered doubtlet which he once stole from somewhere,
by putting my hand on my hip, tilting my hat at a becoming angle, and
winking at him by the hour whilst he paints away."

"Hm! after a night of wandering by the canal in the fog and snow and
sharing the meagre breakfast of a half-starved painter, methinks the
portrait will be that of a knight of the rueful countenance."

"Indeed not, old compeer," said Diogenes with a hearty laugh, "it shall
be the portrait of a Laughing Cavalier."

CHAPTER IX

THE PAINTER OF PICTURES

After this episode Chance had little to do with the further events of
this veracious chronicle.

Men took their destiny in their own hands and laughed at