"Rogues and rasqueals, Mr. Joses," he cried. "Layin' pitchforks for yer
feet--same as the Psalmist says. Hosses is much the very same as men.
Kilted cattle, as the sayin' is. Once they turn agin' you your number's
up. And they got _somefin'_ agin' you. No fault o' yours, I know--godly
genelman like you. But where it is _there_ it is!" He sat in his buggy
and wiped his dewy eye. "And there's the dorg, Mr. Joses. Big dorg,
too!"

* * * * *

Joses, ejected from Putnam's, as Adam had been from Paradise, might be
the loser; but Art certainly was not.

For he painted abominably.

Even the lads jeered at his efforts, while Old Mat said:

"I reck'n my old pony could do better than that, if I filled her tail
with paint and she sat on it."

But Joses was not to be beaten so easily. Meeting Boy Woodburn in the
village street, he asked her if he might paint Billy Bluff.

The girl, knowing Billy's views on Mr. Joses, excused herself and her
dog.

Joses walked down the village street with her, expostulating.

Mrs. Haggard, the vicar's wife, an austere woman, with a jealously