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Page 22
'Anybody know the duffer with the hair?'
This question, started by Charles K. Smith, of Battle Creek, Michigan,
U.S.A., and commonly called in the Latin Quarter by his sobriquet of
_Chalks_, went our rounds in an undertone; and everybody answered,
'No.'
'What is it? Can it talk? 'Pears like it can hear and catch on,' was
Chalks's next remark. 'Shall we work the growler on it?'
The process termed by Chalks 'working the growler' was of ancient
institution in the Caf� des Souris; and I believe it is not unknown in
other seats of learning--a custom handed down from generation to
generation of students, which, like politeness, costing little, yields
generous returns. Should a casual wayfarer, happening amongst us, so
far transgress the usages of good society as to volunteer a
contribution to our talk, without the preliminary of an introduction,
it was the rule instantly to require him to offer the company
refreshments; and, I am sorry to have to add, not infrequently, being
thirsty, and possessing a lively appreciation of the value of our own
money, we would, by a marked affability of bearing, by smiles, nods,
glances of sympathetic understanding, or what not, designedly
encourage such an one to address us, and so render himself liable to
our impost.
'If we don't,' continued Chalks, 'it will be to fly in the face of
Providence. The man is simply bursting to fire his mouth off. He's had
something to say swelling in him for the last half-hour. It will be an
act of Christian mercy to let him say it. And for myself, I confess
I'm rather dry.'
Chalks doubtless argued from the eager eye with which the man regarded
us; from the uneasy way in which he held his seat, shifting in it, and
edging in our direction; and from the tentative manner in which he
occasionally coughed.
Now, persuaded by the American, we one by one fell silent, to give our
victim his opportunity; whilst those nearest to him baited the trap by
looking enquiringly at his face.
It was all he needed.
'I beg your pardon,' he began, with no symptom of diffidence, 'but I
too was at the _Vernissage_ to-day, and some of your comments upon it
have surprised me.' He spoke with a _staccato_ north-country accent,
in a chirpy, querulous little voice; and each syllable seemed to chop
the air, like a blow from a small hatchet. 'Am I to take it that you
are serious when you condemn Bouguereau's great picture as a
_cro�te_? _Cro�te_, if I mistake not, is equivalent to the English
_daub_?'
Our one-armed waiter, Pierre, had but awaited this crisis to come
forward and receive our orders. When they were delivered Chalks
courteously explained the situation to the neophyte, adding that, as a
further formality, he must make us acquainted with his name and
occupation.
He accepted it in perfectly good part. 'I'm sure I shall feel honoured
if you will drink with me,' he said, and settled the reckoning with
Pierre.
'Name? Name?' a dozen of us cried in scattering chorus.
'I had thought that, among so many Englishmen and Americans, some one
would have recognised me,' he replied. 'I am Davis Blake.'
He said it as one might say, 'I am Mr. Gladstone'--or Lord
Salisbury--or Bismarck--with dignity, with an inflection of conscious
greatness, it is true, but with neither haughtiness nor ostentation.
We, however, are singularly ignorant of contemporary English
literature in the Latin Quarter--our chief reading matter, indeed,
being Maupassant and _Le Petit Journal pour Rire_--and though, as we
shortly learned, here was a writer whose works were for sale at every
bookstall in the United Kingdom, lavishly pirated in the United
States, and distributed far and wide by Baron Tauchnitz on the
Continent, his announcement left us unenlightened.
'Painter?' demanded Chalks.
A shadow crossed his face. 'You are surely familiar with my name?'
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