The farmer was
resolute, and spoke very loud, like one that expects opposition, and
comes prepared to quarrel. Instead of that, this artful rogue addressed
him with deep respect and an affected veneration, that quite puzzled
the old man; acquiesced in every word, expressed contrition for his past
misdeeds, and told the farmer he had quite determined to labor with his
hands. "You know, farmer," said he, "I am not the only gentleman who has
come to that in the present day. Now, all my friends that have seen my
sketches, assure me I am a born painter; and a painter I'll be--for love
of Phoebe."
The farmer made a wry face. "Painter! that is a sorry sort of a trade."
"You are mistaken. It's the best trade going. There are gentlemen making
their thousands a year by it."
"Not in our parts, there bain't. Stop a bit. What be ye going to paint,
sir? Housen, or folk?"
"Oh, hang it, not houses. Figures, landscapes."
"Well, ye might just make shift to live at it, I suppose, with here and
there a signboard. They are the best paid, our way: but, Lord bless ye,
THEY wants headpiece. Well, sir, let me see your work. Then we'll talk
further."
"I'll go to work this afternoon," said Falcon eagerly; then with
affected surprise, "Bless me; I forgot.
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