Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1902-03-21

'HATCHER,' cried cheery voice
from the corner of the studio,
"Oh, Thatch!"
"What is it?" growled Thatcher,
shifting his easel and fumbling over
pile of twisted tubes. He was thin and
pale but for the patch of red on his
cheek; his eye was dilated and fever
ish. "What is it Hector?" he repeated.
"Ain't mad are you?" chirruped Hec-
Tor. coming out from the screen be-
hind which he had been washing
dishes.
"Mad? No; why should / be mad?"
I'm going to ask you a delicate
question, that's all, Thatch?"
"Well?"
"Saw Brownlow last night at the ex-
hibition," parried Hector, wiping
plate.
mo question about that" mur-
INJURED Thatcher, lolling back and
squirting at his picture.
"Well, don't fly off now, Thatch. He
asked me to ask you if you't take
thousand dollars for"
''For what?" The painter turned
quickly and there was hard, challeng-
ing note in his words and manner.
For THE Chrysanthemum," an
swered Hector, pausing in his dish
wiping and looking pleadingly at his
friend.
Thatcher had turned back to his
easel. He was biting his thin lip. His
hand was trembling, but there was no
irresolution in the frown upon his pale
forehead.
"What do you mean by asking me
such a question:" asked the painter,
without turning.
"Mean? Why do 1 ever mean? 1
think it's good price; I know you
need the money; you haven't anything
else finished. Brownlow is the richest
amateur in New York. Mean? just
mean that you ought to take it. Sell
The Chrysanthemum.' When she
comes over if she comes, you can paint
another for yourself; if she don't"
"Shut up, Hector!" roared Thatch-
er!" painting furiously so that the
thrum of his brush could be heard in
the still room. Then after a long
pause: 81 won't sell it-hear that,
Hector?"
The painter got up, lighted cigar
cite and stood before the only finished
picture on his dreary walls. 1t was of
n woman, yellow-haired and smiling,
her blue eyes luminous in the half
light, her gloved hand lolling across
the edge of cafe table. Hector
whistled softly and disappeared be-
hind the screen. Thatcher, rapt and
hectic, stood staring at The Chrysan-
themum." Then the friend came forth
wiping his hands, patient, CHEEKY, the
picture of health. He plunged his
strong fingers into bucket of model
ing clay, and with stray glances at
Tbatcher's work, sang softly to him
self. For half an hour they worked in
silence, the painter resting now and
then as if weary, the sculptor, aproned
and alert, whistling or singing, in the
exuberance of health and hope.
'Thatch," he said at last winkinp
slyly at the lay figure on his taHe,
~lend me $40, Thatch?"
81 haven't got $lO," said the painter.
starting.
Hector whistled "La Paloma" for
two minutes. Then:
"Thatch, you're getting extrava-
CANT"
Thatcher struck his brush handle
Into the jardiniere of sand, folded his
thin hands and with a wistful smile
turned on his friend.
"Hector," he began, sid better tell
you before we get to misunderstand-
ing each other. You know I've been
doing pretty well since the Koeller ex-
hibit. I've sold over 81, 900 worth. Won
know. But j can't lend you $40 be-
cause--fact is, Hector, I've sent it all
TO THE Chrysanthemum.' Her last
letter said she'd leave Paris on the
10th. She'll be here New Years day.
When she's here itll be time enough
to sell Brownlow the.picture. I'll need
the thousand all right and I'll have
her"
Hector hummed airily as he ogled
his mud mercury.
$50 you've sent her every dollar"