almost see him gasp. Then, an elderly country gentleman stepped forward
and asked the modest man how he executed his work? And the modest man
took some scraps of brown paper with colours in 'em out of his pockets,
and showed them. Then a fair-complexioned donkey, with sandy hair and
spectacles, asked if the hermit was a portrait? To which the modest man,
casting a sorrowful glance upon it, replied that it was, to a certain
extent, a recollection of his father. This caused a boy to yelp out, "Is
the Pinter a smoking the pipe your mother?" who was immediately shoved
out of view by a sympathetic carpenter with his basket of tools at his
back.

At every fresh question or remark the crowd leaned forward more eagerly,
and dropped the halfpence more freely, and the modest man gathered them
up more meekly. At last, another elderly gentleman came to the front,
and gave the artist his card, to come to his office to-morrow, and get
some copying to do. The card was accompanied by sixpence, and the artist
was profoundly grateful, and, before he put the card in his hat, read it
several times by the light of his candles to fix the address well in his
mind, in case he should lose it. The crowd was deeply interested by this
last incident, and a man in the second row with a gruff voice growled to
the artist, "You've got a chance in life now, ain't you?" The artist
answered (sniffing in a very low-spirited way, however), "I'm thankful to
hope so." Upon which there was a general chorus of "You are all right,"
and the halfpence slackened very decidedly.

I felt myself pulled away by the arm, and Mr. Click and I stood alone at
the corner of the next crossing.

"Why, Tom," said Mr. Click, "what a horrid expression of face you've
got!"