Mine's the lack," continued the captain with a sigh, "Andy's
end of the business is all right I tell you he's an artist from way
back!"
"Yoost hear dot old man! He always talk 'poud me like dot," purred the
pleased German.
"Look at his work yourself! Fourteen portraits in a row. And no two of
them alike."
"Now that you speak of it, it is true; I hadn't noticed it before. It is
very remarkable. Unique, I suppose."
"I should say so. That's the very thing about Andy--he discriminates.
Discrimination's the thief of time--forty-ninth Psalm; but that ain't any
matter, it's the honest thing, and it pays in the end."
"Yes, he certainly is great in that feature, one is obliged to admit it;
but--now mind, I'm not really criticising--don't you think he is just a
trifle overstrong in technique?"
The captain's face was knocked expressionless by this remark. It
remained quite vacant while he muttered to himself--"Technique--
technique--polytechnique--pyro-technique; that's it, likely--fireworks too
much color." Then he spoke up with serenity and confidence, and said:
"Well, yes, he does pile it on pretty loud; but they all like it, you
know--fact is, it's the life of the business.
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