San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1892-02-19

sprang TO the dusky corner. My heart
choked me. wanted to shout SO that
| John Brent, miles away across the wilder
ness of the great city, could hear and
come with one step.
For here was what l hoped.
Here we ere, our very selves, in this
bold, mastery drawing. John Brent
himself, the wounded knight; myself,
bringing him water from the fountain;
our dear Ellen, kneeling beside; and
bending over us, Don Fulano, the chiefest
| hero of that terrible ride through the
canyon.
And more, if needed proof For here,
in among the water plants by the spring,
there in the grass under Wordsworth's
oak, lurked The initials E. c.
Found! All, not yet A clew; but
perhaps clew that would break in my.
hands as traced it.
lost no time.
"These are pretty pictures" said L.
crushing myself into self possession.
"What has that got to do with this
jobg"
"You think I'm a pretty good me-
| chanic?"
"Middling. You handle tools well
enough for gentleman"
"Well, if were not bit of an artist
should not es an be middling mechanic.
like 70 see fine art such az these draw
ings hung up before a workingman. l
can understand how approaching such
things has helped you to become the first
mechanic in England"
"Who says am that"
$50 the first engineer in England told
me when he sent me here"
"Oh, he sent you! supposed you did
not find your own way"
| "There has been no chance in my COM
ing here" said ], and my heart thanked
God.
"You're right about those drawings,
| young man." Padiham said, and his
voice seemed to find sweeter tone even
than before. "They do me good and put
finer edge on my work. They're good
work and by good hand"
"Whose?"
The dwarf turned about and surveyed
me strictly. Then he started his lathe
| again, tore off a narrow ringlet of steel
from a bit he was shaping, and flung
another stream of steely perfume in the
| air.
"Whose hand?" asked again.
"Do you ask because you want to
know, or only to make idle talk?"
81 want to know"
"What for?'
81 think the drawings are good.
should like pair by the same hand.
Can you direct me to the artist"
"No."
"Why not?'
1.-THE artist don't like strangers.
will order you what you want"
"That will not do. / prefer to talk
over the subjects with the painter"
The dwarf turned again and gave me
| probing look, and again took up his
chisel and cut shining curls without
reply.
grew impatient of this parley. He
knew something, and it must out.
"Look at me, George Padiham!"
said. "Stop your lathe minute and
| charge me for the time hundred times
over! know the hand that painted
these pictures. My portrait, and my
friends, and my horses portrait are
here on your wall. Only one person in the
world could have painted them-Ellen
| Clitheroe. Here are her initials in the
corner You know where sheis. wish
to see her. | must see her at once, now!'
"Keep cool, young man! This is my
shop. I'm master here. I've put bigger
men than you out of this door before.
What's all this must and shall about?
What's your name"
| Orchard Wade"
Padiham left his lathe, came toward
me, surveyed me earnestly again and
| then took down the drawing wherein I
appeared. He compared the man stand
ing before him with his counterfeit pre-
sentiment. There could be no mistaking
me. l had the honor to resemble my
self, as the artist had remembered me.
"You're the man." said Padiham.
"rve heard of you. l wasn't looking
sharp not to have known you when you
first came in and stood there by the door
waiting for me to speak first. Richard
Wade, give me your hand! suppose if
am the best mechanic in England
called so on good authority-you won't
mind striking palms with me-"
shook him by the hand pretty vigor-
ously.
you've got middling strong grip of
your fist for one of the overgrown Sort"
said he. Where's your friend, John
BrentT
"Here in London, searching for Miss
Clitheroep