sometimes reason with him; they would point out to him how
impossible it was to paint by gaslight, or to sculpture

life-sized nymphs without a model.
'I know that,' he would reply. 'No one in Norfolk Street knows it

better; and if I were rich I should certainly employ the best
models in London; but, being poor, I have taught myself to do

without them. An occasional model would only disturb my ideal
conception of the figure, and be a positiveimpediment in my

career. As for painting by an artificial light,' he would
continue, 'that is simply a knack I have found it necessary to

acquire, my days being engrossed in the work of tuition.'
At the moment when we must present him to our readers, Pitman was

in his studio alone, by the dying light of the October day. He
sat (sure enough with 'unaffected simplicity') in a Windsor

chair, his low-crowned black felt hat by his side; a dark, weak,
harmless, pathetic little man, clad in the hue of mourning, his

coat longer than is usual with the laity, his neck enclosed in a
collar without a parting, his neckcloth pale in hue and simply

tied; the whole outward man, except for a pointed beard,
tentatively clerical. There was a thinning on the top of Pitman's

head, there were silver hairs at Pitman's temple. Poor gentleman,
he was no longer young; and years, and poverty, and humble

ambition thwarted, make a cheerless lot.
In front of him, in the corner by the door, there stood a portly

barrel; and let him turn them where he might, it was always to
the barrel that his eyes and his thoughts returned.

'Should I open it? Should I return it? Should I communicate with
Mr Sernitopolis at once?' he wondered. 'No,' he concluded

finally, 'nothing without Mr Finsbury's advice.' And he arose and
produced a shabby leathern desk. It opened without the formality

of unlocking, and displayed the thick cream-coloured notepaper on
which Mr Pitman was in the habit of communicating with the

proprietors of schools and the parents of his pupils. He placed
the desk on the table by the window, and taking a saucer of

Indian ink from the chimney-piece, laboriously composed the
following letter:

'My dear Mr Finsbury,' it ran, 'would it be presuming on your
kindness if I asked you to pay me a visit here this evening? It

is in no trifling matter that I invoke your valuable assistance,
for need I say more than it concerns the welfare of Mr

Semitopolis's statue of Hercules? I write you in great agitation
of mind; for I have made all enquiries, and greatly fear that

this work of ancient art has been mislaid. I labour besides under
another perplexity, not unconnected with the first. Pray excuse

the inelegance of this scrawl, and believe me yours in haste,
William D. Pitman.'

Armed with this he set forth and rang the bell of No. 233 King's
Road, the private residence of Michael Finsbury. He had met the

lawyer at a time of great public excitement in Chelsea; Michael,
who had a sense of humour and a great deal of careless kindness

in his nature, followed the acquaintance up, and, having come to
laugh, remained to drop into a contemptuous kind of friendship.

By this time, which was four years after the first meeting,
Pitman was the lawyer's dog.

'No,' said the elderlyhousekeeper, who opened the door in
person, 'Mr Michael's not in yet. But ye're looking terribly

poorly, Mr Pitman. Take a glass of sherry, sir, to cheer ye up.'
'No, I thank you, ma'am,' replied the artist. 'It is very good in

you, but I scarcely feel in sufficient spirits for sherry. Just
give Mr Finsbury this note, and ask him to look round--to the

door in the lane, you will please tell him; I shall be in the
studio all evening.'

And he turned again into the street and walked slowly homeward. A
hairdresser's window caught his attention, and he stared long and

earnestly at the proud, high--born, waxen lady in evening dress,
who circulated in the centre of the show. The artist woke in him,

in spite of his troubles.
'It is all very well to run down the men who make these things,'

he cried, 'but there's a something--there's a haughty,
indefinable something about that figure. It's what I tried for in

my "Empress Eugenie",' he added, with a sigh.
And he went home reflecting on the quality. 'They don't teach you

that direct appeal in Paris,' he thought. 'It's British. Come, I
am going to sleep, I must wake up, I must aim higher--aim

higher,' cried the little artist to himself. All through his tea
and afterward, as he was giving his eldest boy a lesson on the

fiddle, his mind dwelt no longer on his troubles, but he was rapt
into the better land; and no sooner was he at liberty than he

hastened with positive exhilaration to his studio.
Not even the sight of the barrel could entirely cast him down. He

flung himself with rising zest into his work--a bust of Mr
Gladstone from a photograph; turned (with extraordinary success)

the difficulty of the back of the head, for which he had no
documents beyond a hazy recollection of a public meeting;

delighted himself by his treatment of the collar; and was only
recalled to the cares of life by Michael Finsbury's rattle at the

door.
'Well, what's wrong?' said Michael, advancing to the grate,

where, knowing his friend's delight in a bright fire, Mr Pitman
had not spared the fuel. 'I suppose you have come to grief

somehow.'
'There is no expression strong enough,' said the artist. 'Mr

Semitopolis's statue has not turned up, and I am afraid I shall
be answerable for the money; but I think nothing of that--what I

fear, my dear Mr Finsbury, what I fear--alas that I should have
to say it! is exposure. The Hercules was to be smuggled out of

Italy; a thing positively wrong, a thing of which a man of my
principles and in my responsible position should have taken (as I

now see too late) no part whatever.'
'This sounds like very serious work,' said the lawyer. 'It will

require a great deal of drink, Pitman.'
'I took the liberty of--in short, of being prepared for you,'

replied the artist, pointing to a kettle, a bottle of gin, a
lemon, and glasses. Michael mixed himself a grog, and offered the

artist a cigar.
'No, thank you,' said Pitman. 'I used occasionally to be rather

partial to it, but the smell is so disagreeable about the
clothes.'

'All right,' said the lawyer. 'I am comfortable now. Unfold your
tale.'

At some length Pitman set forth his sorrows. He had gone today to
Waterloo, expecting to receive the colossal Hercules, and he had

received instead a barrel not big enough to hold Discobolus; yet
the barrel was addressed in the hand (with which he was perfectly

acquainted) of his Roman correspondent. What was stranger still,
a case had arrived by the same train, large enough and heavy

enough to contain the Hercules; and this case had been taken to
an address now undiscoverable. 'The vanman (I regret to say it)

had been drinking, and his language was such as I could never
bring myself to repeat.

He was at once discharged by the superintendent of the line, who
behaved most properly throughout, and is to make enquiries at

Southampton. In the meanwhile, what was I to do? I left my
address and brought the barrel home; but, remembering an old

adage, I determined not to open it except in the presence of my
lawyer.'

'Is that all?' asked Michael. 'I don't see any cause to worry.
The Hercules has stuck upon the road. It will drop in tomorrow or

the day after; and as for the barrel, depend upon it, it's a