"Don't wobble, confound you!" snorted Mr. Wheeler.

"Yes, but, my dear old artist," said Archie, "what you don't seem to
grasp--what you appear not to realise--is that I'm getting a crick
in the back."

"You weakling! You miserable, invertebrate worm. Move an inch and
I'll murder you, and come and dance on your grave every Wednesday
and Saturday. I'm just getting it."

"It's in the spine that it seems to catch me principally."

"Be a man, you faint-hearted string-bean!" urged J. B. Wheeler. "You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, a girl who was posing for me
last week stood for a solid hour on one leg, holding a tennis racket
over her head and smiling brightly withal."

"The female of the species is more india-rubbery than the male,"
argued Archie.

"Well, I'll be through in a few minutes. Don't weaken. Think how
proud you'll be when you see yourself on all the bookstalls."

Archie sighed, and braced himself to the task once more. He wished
he had never taken on this binge. In addition to his physical
discomfort, he was feeling a most awful chump. The cover on which
Mr. Wheeler was engaged was for the August number of the magazine,
and it had been necessary for Archie to drape his reluctant form in
a two-piece bathing suit of a vivid lemon colour; for he was
supposed to be representing one of those jolly dogs belonging to the