It were perhaps more truthful to say that one was busily at work and the
other was busily advising and directing. Neil Fletcher stood on a small
table, which swayed perilously from side to side at his every movement,
and drove nails into an already much mutilated wall. Paul Gale sat in a
hospitable armchair upholstered in a good imitation of green leather and
nodded approval.

"That'll do for 'Old Abe'; now hang The First Snow a bit to the left and
underneath."

"The First Snow hasn't any wire on it," complained Neil. "See if you
can't find some."

"Wire's all gone," answered Paul. "We'll have to get some more. Where's
that list? Oh, here it is. 'Item, picture wire.' I say, what in
thunder's this you've got down--'Ring for waistband'?"

"Rug for wash-stand, you idiot! I guess we'll have to quit until we get
some more wire, eh? Or we might hang a few of them with boot-laces and
neckties?"

"Oh, let's call it off. I'm tired," answered Paul with a grin. "The room
begins to look rather decent, doesn't it? We must change that couch,
though; put it the other way so the ravelings won't show. And that
picture of--"

But just here Neil attempted to step from the table and landed in a heap
on the floor, and Paul forgot criticism in joyful applause.

"Oh, noble work! Do it again, old man; I didn't see the take-off!"