way.

Suddenly, by a change of attitude on the painter's part, the picture
on which Dick Watson was engaged became visible to Fenwick. He walked
eagerly up to it.

'I say!'--his face flushed with admiration. 'That figure's wonderful.'
He pointed to the terror-stricken culprit. 'But that horse there--you
don't mind, do you?--that horse is wrong!'

'I know he is! I've worked at him till I'm sick. Can't work at him any
more!'

'It should be like this.'

He took out a sketch-book from his pocket, caught up a piece of
charcoal and rapidly sketched the horse in the attitude required. Then
he handed the book to Watson, who looked first at the sketch, and then
at some of the neighbouring pages, which were covered with studies of
horses observed mostly on the day of some trade-union procession, when
mounted police were keeping the road.

Watson was silent a moment, then, walking up to his picture, he took
his palette-knife and scraped out the whole passage. 'I see!' he said,
and, laying down the knife, he threw himself into a chair, flushed and
discomposed.

'Oh, you'll soon put it right!' said Fenwick, encouragingly.

Watson winced--then nodded.