The painter stopped. "Is that so! And you're doing this—to make money?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll be doggoned. Me, too. I study at the School of Design in the winter, and in the summer I come out here to do signs and lightning portraits and whatever else I can to make the money for it. Sometimes," he added, "I pick up more than a thousand bucks in a season. This is my fourth year at it."
There was in the young artist's eye a hint of amusement, a suggestion that they were in league. Hugo liked him. He sat down on a box. "Live here?"
"Yes. Three blocks away."
"Me, too. Why not come up and have supper with—my wife and me?"
"Are you married?" The artist commenced work again.
Hugo hesitated. "Yeah."
"Sure I'll come up. My name's Valentine Mitchel. I can't shake hands just now. It's been a long
