thank God for it."

John Barron was rough tonic, but the fearless little man generally found an
audience at the end of the day in this studio or that. The truth of much
that he said appealed to the lofty-minded and serious; his dry cynicism,
savage dislike of civilization, and frank affection for Nature, attracted
others. He hit hard, but he never resented rough knocks in return, and no
man had seen him out of temper with anything but mysticism and the art bred
therefrom. Upon the whole, however, his materialism annoyed more than his
wit amused.

Upon the evening which followed his insult to the Newlyn gulls, Barron,
with Edmund Murdoch and some other men, was talking in the studio of one
Brady, known to fame as the "Wrecker," from his love for the artistic
representation of maritime disaster. Barron liked this man, for he was
outspoken and held vigorous views, but the two quarreled freely.

"Fate was a fool when she chucked her presents into the lap of a lazy
beggar like you," said Brady, addressing the visitor. "And thrice a fool,"
he added, "to assort her gifts so ill."

"Fate is a knave, a mad thing playing at cat's cradle with the threads of
our wretched little lives," answered John Barron, "she is a coward--a
bully. She hits the hungry below the belt; she heaps gold into the lap of
the old man, but not till he has already dug his own grave to come at it;
she gives health to those who must needs waste all their splendid strength
on work; and wealth to worthless beings like myself who are always ailing
and who never spend a pound with wisdom. Make no dark cryptic mystery of
Fate when you paint her. She looks to me like a mischievous monkey poking
sticks into an ant-hill."