"God knows," returned the boy. "Blizzard don't boast about it like the
others. But he ain't no common beggar. He's a man."
"A good man?"
"Good? He ain't got a kinder thought in his block than settin' fire to
houses and killin' people. But when he says 'step,' _it_ steps."
"It?"
"The East Side, Miss Barbara. He's the whole show."
"What does he look like?"
The boy at first thought in vain for a simile, and then, having found
one to his liking, emitted with great earnestness that the beggar,
Blizzard, looked exactly like "the wrath of God." Whatever the boy's
simile may convey to the reader, to Barbara, fresh from seeing the man
himself, it had a wonderful aptness.
"That's my man," she exclaimed. "Blizzard! He's got a wonderful face,
Bubbles, and you said just what it looks like. I'm going to make a
bust of him."
"He's coming here?"
"Yes. Why not?"
The boy was troubled. "Miss Barbara," he said earnestly, "I wouldn't go
for to touch that man with a ten-foot pole."
"I shan't touch him, except with compasses to take measurements. He's
civil-spoken enough."
"He's bad," said Bubbles, "bad. And when I say bad, I mean millions of
things that you never heard tell of, and never will. If he comes in
here--and, and raises hell, don't blame _me_."
Barbara laughed. "He will come here, and sit perfectly still," she said,
"until he wishes he was dead. And then he will receive money, and an
invitation to come to-morrow. And then he will go away."
Bubbles looked unnaturally solemn and dejected.
"Besides," said Barbara, "I have you to protect me."
Though Bubbles made no boast, a world of resolution swept into his great
eyes, and you knew by the simultaneous rising toward his chin of all the
buttons upon the front of his jacket that he had drawn the long breath
of courage, and stiffened the articulations of his spine.
Barbara's studio was a large, high-ceilinged room, whose north wall was
almost entirely composed of glass. It was singularly bare of those
hangings, lanterns, antique cabinets, carved chairs, scraps of brocade,
brass candle-sticks six or seven, feet high, samovars, pewter
porringers, spinning-wheels, etc., etc., upon which so many artists
appear to depend for comfort and inspiration. Nor were there any notable
collections of dust, or fragments of meals, or dirty plates. There was
neither a Winged Victory, a Venus de Milo, nor a Hermes after
Praxiteles. And except for the bust of Bubbles there was no example of
Barbara's own work by which to fish for stray compliments from the
casual visitor. Of the amenities the studio had but a thick carpet, an
open fireplace, and a pair of plain but easy chairs. Upon a strong
tremorless table placed near the one great window, a huge lump of clay,
swathed in damp cloths, alone served to denote the occupant's avocation.
Off the studio, however, Barbara had a pleasantly furnished room in
which she might loaf, make tea, or serve a meal, and this in turn was
separated from the tiny room in which Bubbles slept, by a small but
practical kitchen.
Barbara having withdrawn to roll up her sleeves and put on her
work-apron, the legless beggar arrived in silence at the outer door of
the studio, and having drawn a long breath, knocked, and Bubbles, not
without an uncomfortable fluttering of the heart, pulled it open. The
boy and the beggar, being about the same height, looked each other in
the face with level eyes.
"_So_," said Blizzard, "this is what has become of you. You were
reported dead."
"No, sir," said Bubbles, "I wasn't dead, only sick. She brought me
here, and had her own father and a nurse to take care of me. And now I'm
Buttons." And he went on glibly: "Come right in; Miss Ferris is
expecting you. I guess she wants you to sit on the platform over in
the window."
Blizzard, having unslung his hand-organ and slid it with a show of
petulance into a corner, crossed the room, swinging strongly and easily
between his crutches, like a fine piece of machinery, climbed upon the
model's platform, and seated himself in the plain deal chair which
already occupied it. From this point of vantage he turned and looked
down at the boy.
"So," he said, "her father _is_ Dr. Ferris."
"He's _the_ Dr. Ferris," Bubbles returned loyally.
"So--so--so," said the legless one slowly, and he closed his eyes for a
moment as if he was tired. Then, opening them, and in abrupt tones: "Pay
you well?"
"Yes, sir."
"Many people come here?"
Bubbles, who had gone to school--not in the schools, but in the city of
New York itself--could lie without the least tremor or change of
feature, and with remarkable suddenness. "Lots and lots of 'em," he
said. "_She's_ well known."