DAVE PAINTS A PICTURE
The Ramblers had been back two days. Bob and his companions were deeply
shocked to hear about Howard Fenton, and went immediately to the Resort
House, to express their sympathy to his father, but Mr. Fenton had left
the village.
The boys found plenty to talk about. Sam Randall and Tommy Clifton
listened eagerly to the story of their chums' experiences in the
mountains, while Bob and his companions were interested to hear about
mysterious Neil Prescott and the strange bonfire which often burned on
the heights of Promontory Island.
"Nobody knows a thing about him, either," remarked Sam, as they sat
around the porch, early one morning. "When Tom and I take our trip to
the mountains, you chaps ought to do a bit of detective work."
"Guess he's only some old crank," said Bob, "not worth bothering
about."
"He's sharp enough, eh, Tommy?"
Clifton nodded.
"You bet," he said. "Whenever we start to quizzing, he always says,
'Now, youngsters, I'll spin a little yarn.' He's great at it, too."
"Couldn't beat Hank Merwin," said Dick.
"Huh--you haven't heard Neil Prescott."
"And you haven't heard Hank."
"Fellows," interrupted Bob, "let's get away from this porch. Suppose we
take a jaunt somewhere?"
The captain arose, and picked up his gun. "Saw some ducks yesterday,"
he went on. "Might get a crack at 'em."
"And I'm going to make a sketch," declared Dave.
Dick Travers accompanied him inside and walked to the drawing-room,
while the other went up-stairs for his painting materials.
The "official photographer's" eyes glowed with pride, as his gaze
rested upon a pair of moose antlers.
"And to think I brought him down," he muttered, for about the fiftieth
time. "Gee!" and he straightened himself up with a thrill of pride.
"Say, what are you doing in there?" called Tommy Clifton, suddenly
appearing in the doorway.
"Did you see my handkerchief laying around anywhere?" stammered Dick.
"No! But I see those horns," gurgled Tommy, with a sly wink.
"That will do, Tommy. If you practice a bit, maybe you'll bring down
something, too. Hello--I hear Tom Sanders' sweet voice outside."
Dave Brandon came down-stairs at this moment, with his paint box,
easel, canvas and a huge white umbrella.
"Look at the fat peddler," snickered Clifton, as they walked out on the
porch.
Tom Sanders was greatly interested.
"What a rig!" he said, loudly. "Say, are you goin' to make a paintin'?"
"Yep."
"Bartlett's pond is awful purty."
"Then let's make a bee-line for it."
"That your dog, Sanders?" asked Dave, presently.
He pointed to a large, scrawny animal which was squatting on the ground
close by. Its color was a dull yellow; of all the dogs they had seen
in Mountain Village this was quite the ugliest.
"Ain't you never seen Tige afore?" asked Sanders, in surprise. "He's a
bully dorg, he is--say! I'll lay me cap down, an' if any of you fellers
kin git away with it, it's yours."
This liberal offer was politely declined.
"He ain't afear'd of nuthin'," went on Sanders. "That dorg couldn't be
bought fur five dollars. Oncet a feller offered me fifty cents, but I
says 'no.'"
"Well, we won't tempt you to part with him," laughed Bob.
As he approached, the animal raised his head slightly, and showed a row
of gleaming teeth.
"He's got a disposition like 'Surly Joe's,'" said Dick, with a grin.
A few minutes later, the six boys crossed the baseball diamond, and
were soon on the road.
Bartlett's pond was about two miles from Rickham House, on the edge of
a fringe of woods, charmingly framed in by the distant mountains.
"Ah, this is great," murmured Dave, presently. "Ought to make a dandy
sketch."
To the left, a clump of trees overhung the pond, while in the
foreground an ancient flat-bottomed boat lay partly submerged, with
reeds and tall grass growing all around.
A canvas was placed on the easel, and then Dave began to set his
palette, surrounded by an interested group.
"Ain't them purty colors fur ye?" said Sanders.
"It's the mixing that would bother me," put in Tom Clifton,
confidentially.
At last Dave was ready.
"What's yer a-puttin' on that awful mug fur?" demanded Sanders. "D'ye
feel sick?"
"Sick?" echoed the artist.
"Sure! Mebbe the smell of paint ain't good. There was Phil Levins'
dad--started ter paint his barn, an' was took somphin' awful."
Sanders looked mildly astonished when his hearers roared with laughter.
"Bang--there it goes," said Sam, as Dave started to sketch in the
general lines with charcoal.
"Ah!" said Bob, when the first dab of color struck the canvas.
And Dave squinted his eyes and sighed, and contracted his brows, as the
surface was gradually covered.
"Don't look like nothin' ter me," said Sanders, frankly, his face
within two feet of the canvas. "'Tain't smooth."
"If," said Dave, calmly, "that paint gets on your nose, Sanders, don't
blame me."
Half an hour later, Bob Somers observed, "Looks great--doesn't it,
boys?"
"Dave, you're a wonder," added Sam.
"Don't look like nothin' ter me," repeated Sanders. "What's the use of
doin' it?"
"Thus is genius always unappreciated," smiled Dave. "Some day, Sanders,
when you hear a big noise, rolling like distant thunder, you'll know
it's my fame reaching Mountain Village."
A low growl came from Tige at this moment. A boy and a large dog were
approaching. The dog soon led. It was larger than Tige, shaggy, and
wore an expression which indicated that timidity was not a part of its
nature.
Trouble was brewing, and it came sooner than expected.
The newcomer wasted no time in preliminaries. The moment he saw Tige he
sprang for him.
All but Dave Brandon retreated--he didn't have time.
Smack! The animals backed up against the easel, sending it flying.
Bang! The canvas smote Dave Brandon on the nose, his stool tilted, and
over he went backward, while his palette dropped squarely on Tige's
back. The big umbrella, after gracefully sailing through the air,
landed a few feet away.
As Dave picked himself up, he was not pleased to find that operations
continued with great activity close around him. Each dog let out a
series of howls, barks, whines and grunts; each got knocked down, and
each knocked the other down, while eight legs waved wildly in all
directions.
"Whee!" cried Dave, as one after the other bumped into him. "It's time
they had a lesson in manners."
He seized his rest stick, and raised it aloft, aiming toward the spot
where the mixture of dog seemed thickest.
About one second later, a howl such as rarely issued from a canine
throat disturbed the atmosphere, and one dog was seen rapidly backing
away. Then the rest stick hit the other dog in the back, and the noise
in that immediate vicinity was considerably augmented.
"Don't hit my poor dorg ag'in!" screamed Sanders, rushing forward.
But Dave had not intended his blows to land. They served, however, to
keep the two howling canines from renewing their fights, and by that
time the owner of the visiting dog had come running up, hatless, and
out of breath.
"W-w-what d-d-do you m-ean?" he stammered, taking a position between
Dave's stick and his own pet.
"What does the dog mean?" demanded Dave, facetiously, again.
"I guess he was just sparring for points," laughed the newcomer,
perceiving that Dave was disposed to view the situation in a humorous
light.
At this moment several hearty peals of laughter rang out.
"Awful sorry, old man," snickered Bob, "but I can't help it. Maybe Tige
isn't a beautiful sight, and your face--wow!"
"Funniest thing I ever saw," gasped Dick.
The artist was calmly wiping his forehead and cheeks, thereby spreading
the color.
As for the owner of the dog which had caused all the trouble, he now
seized the animal by the collar, and bending forward looked at Dave
with a scared expression.
"I'm awful sorry," he said. "I----"
"Might have known your old brute would raise the mischief, Ben
Henderson," growled Sanders, aiming a kick at Tige which sent the sadly
bedaubed animal scurrying away.
"Honest--it wasn't my fault," pleaded the boy. "I'm awful sorry."
"It's all right, son," put in Dave.
"Nip's kind of out of humor to-day, and----"
"'Nip'? That's a mighty queer name."
"Yes, sir! We have another dog named Tuck, so it's Nip and Tuck."
"Thank goodness Tuck didn't come along," said Dave, as he picked up
the easel and set his sketch in place.
"Awful glad your paintin' wasn't spoiled," said the boy. "It's bully.
You're a regular artist, ain't you?"
At this remark a very wide smile played over the stout boy's features.
"I draw pictures, too," stammered Ben.
"You do?" said Dave, with interest. "See here, Ben, do you tend sheep?"
"Sure," answered the boy, in surprise. "Why?"
"Well, well," continued Dave, laughingly; "fellows, maybe we've
discovered another Giotto."
"Giotto?" echoed Ben. "Who's he?"
"Oh, an Italian artist who lived several hundred years ago," explained
Dave. "While tending sheep, he used to draw, and afterward he became
famous."
"I've drawn pictures, too, while the sheep were grazing," said Ben,
eagerly.
"Suffering catfish, how like the other Gee Otto," put in Tommy Clifton.
"I'll draw you a picture now. Oh, you needn't laugh, Tom Sanders."
Ben seized the sketch-book which Dave held out, and began to work.
"Good boy! You've got the stuff all right," exclaimed the stout boy.
Young Henderson looked pleased.
"Isn't this like my father's house, Sanders?" he asked, holding up the
sketch, and Tom admitted that it was.
"Wish Professor Mead could see it," murmured Dave. "If you want me to
give you a few pointers, come over to Rickham."
Ben was delighted.
"You bet I'll come over," he said, with sparkling eyes.
"Then I must order a pair of spectacles," said Dave, solemnly, "and
cultivate a severe frown and deep voice, and if you don't become a
second Giotto, it won't be my fault."