his pockets and his hair very much crumpled, looking at him askance.
The light of admiration was in Rowland's eyes, and it speedily kindled a
wonderful illumination on Hudson's handsome brow. Rowland said at last,
gravely, "You have only to work!"

"I think I know what that means," Roderick answered. He turned away,
threw himself on a rickety chair, and sat for some moments with his
elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "Work--work?" he said at
last, looking up, "ah, if I could only begin!" He glanced round the
room a moment and his eye encountered on the mantel-shelf the vivid
physiognomy of Mr. Barnaby Striker. His smile vanished, and he stared at
it with an air of concentrated enmity. "I want to begin," he cried, "and
I can't make a better beginning than this! Good-by, Mr. Striker!" He
strode across the room, seized a mallet that lay at hand, and before
Rowland could interfere, in the interest of art if not of morals, dealt
a merciless blow upon Mr. Striker's skull. The bust cracked into a
dozen pieces, which toppled with a great crash upon the floor. Rowland
relished neither the destruction of the image nor his companion's look
in working it, but as he was about to express his displeasure the door
opened and gave passage to a young girl. She came in with a rapid step
and startled face, as if she had been summoned by the noise. Seeing the
heap of shattered clay and the mallet in Roderick's hand, she gave a
cry of horror. Her voice died away when she perceived that Rowland was a
stranger, but she murmured reproachfully, "Why, Roderick, what have you
done?"

Roderick gave a joyous kick to the shapeless fragments. "I 've driven
the money-changers out of the temple!" he cried.

The traces retained shape enough to be recognized, and she gave a little