to fumble in his painting box.

"Ver' funny--ver' funny," he crooned, "forgot my brushes."

"Let me get them for you," I suggested.

He waived me aside. "Gimme air."

Whinney's shutter was now clicking industriously. He had decided to
use an entire film, and submit the picture which came out best. Swank
was gradually covering his canvas by squeezing the paint directly from
the tubes, a method which has since been copied by many others--the
"Tubistes" so called. Every few moments he would lurch forward and
press his nose against the canvas, once falling flat on his masterpiece,
most of which was transferred to his chest. But he persevered.

Whinney by this time had retired to his darkroom; Baahaabaa and
Hitoia-Upa snored; Swank worked and I, from a near-by knoll, watched
the miracle of a tropical dawn.

It was a scene of infinite calm, low in color-key, peaceful in
composition, the curve of purple and lavender beach unbroken, the crest
of dark palms unmoved, "like a Turk verse along a scimitar." The waters
of the lagoon, a mirror of molten amber, reflected the soft hues of
the sky from which the trailing garments of night were gradually
withdrawn before his majesty, the Day.

Swank only allowed himself the use of the three primary
colors--consequently his rendering of the opalescent beauty of this
particular dawn was somewhat beyond me.