Stories with a Vengeance — page 22: what you’re looking at

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18 THE STORY OF JACK THE PAINTHR. another,” calmly replied the dark lady. “But we are wasting time. Let me intro. duce you to my Sister Nicotina. Nicotina, my dear, I present you to Mr. Impu- dence.” “You might as well say Mr. Wonder- struck. It’s nearer the truth and it sounds nicer,” expostulated Jack, as he made a deep reverence to a lady in sea-green satin, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes, who looked at Jack, over her shoulder, in a delightfully saucy manner, the while she placidly puffed at a cigarette. “ Nicotina is always smoking,” observed the lady with the moustache. “We scold her for it; but she persists in the pernicious habit. It strikes me too, young sir, that you yourself are no inveterate foe to the weed, since you were fool enough to throw yourself down a precipice in the hope of recovering a eabbishine briar-wood pipe not worth sixpence.” “There, don’t tease him. He’s a poor benighted creature.” Thus the Lady of the Cigarette, “ We haven’t introduced him to our sister Decamisada yet.” The Lady of the Cigarette and the Lady of the Moustache then led forward a third beauty—rather a “ photographic” beauty Jack thought her—who made a somewhat liberal exhibition of a superb bust and arms. She was arrayed in some flowing drapery of a soft, silky texture, and of a very pale amber hue. The folds of her drapery were arranged with exquisite grace —she looked, indeed, as graceful as Ellen Terry in “The Cup,” which is saying a great deal; but when she raised her arm, and the folds of her silken robe were momentarily disarranged, Jack looked in vain for any evidence of a garment of fine linen beneath. This perplexed him somewhat, and his perplexity did not escape the notice of the imperious Lady Philocoma. ' “ Now, Mr. Inquisitive,” she said, sharply, “can’t you keep your eyes off my sister Decamisada’s dress? What have you to do with it if she does choose not to wear a— well, a tunic ?” “Yes,” interposed Sister Nicotina, “and what do you mean by staring so rudely at my cigarette, and at my sister Philocoma’s moustache? Haven’t we all aright to wear what we like and to do what we like P” “Of course you have, dear ladies,” said Jack, humbly. “But I would venture to point out that it’s my business to stare and to be inquisitive. T’m bound to be an admirer of beauty and astudent of costume. I am one of those unhappy beings called painters.” “ What do you paint P” asked Philocoma, Google with no small scorn in her tone. “Signs, coaches, scenes, or black eyes P” “Saving your presence,” replied Jack, who was growing somewhat dejected under the persecution of his comely but implacable interlocutors, “I am an artist, and my especial line in art is historic genre.” “You'd better not tell that to the Rural Police,” remarked Decamisada, severely. “Nor to Mrs. Cubbley, of the ‘Lamb and Tarbrush,’ at East Jowling,” added Nicotina. “Nor to Squire Grim, the mapistrate,” pursued Philocoma; “he'd give you a month on the treadmill. I think artists come under the Vagrant Act, don’t they, sisters P” ‘‘ Of course they do,” acquiesced Nicotina. “Yes; and so do the poets, and the novelists, and the musicians,” contmued Decamisada. “The artists, especially, be- come amenable to the criminal law when they are found tramping, under the most suspicious circumstances, up and down the country ; riding in carts with millers, and consulting with beggar-women, gipsies, and reputed witches. I should strongly advise you to keep out of the way of Squire Grim.” Human patience has its limits, and this was alittle too much even for thé long- suffering Jack the Painter. “Confound Squire Grim!” he cried out, with considerable heat. ‘ What have I done that you should all be down on a fellow like this? I’ve been bamboozled this morning by three ugly old women that I tried to be kind to; I’ve lost my favourite briar-wood pipe, and I’ve had my pocket picked of over thirty pounds by a wretched | little brat of a nigger, who, I have reason to believe, is concealed somewhere about these premises. How would you feel if I were to come here to-morrow with a police- man and a search warrant P” “The policeman wouldn’t be able to find us.” calmly replied the Lady Philocoma. There are no to-morrows here, nor yester- days. To-day’s performance will not’ be repeated. As for the black boy you mention, and whom you accuse of picking your pocket, I suppose that you refer to my Nubian slave, Jumbo.” As she spoke she struck a silver alarum, and forthwith there made his appearance, profuse in salaams and grins, the son of the King of All the Congoes. But he was no longer Jumbo, in a smock-frock and _leg- ings. He was gorgeously dressed in | Oriental garb, and his woolly pate was con- cealed by a white muslin turban, sparking | with jewels, and above which soared a bird | of paradise plume. a JOO @ © = a S CO)