golden haze into which work had not entered.
He was to be shocked still more very soon.
Stung to action by his thoughts, he embarked upon a sweeping attack on
the stronghold of those who exchange cash for artists' dreams. He
ransacked the studio and set out on his mission in a cab bulging with
large, small, and medium-sized canvases. Like a wave receding from a
breakwater he returned late in the day, a branded failure.
The dealers had eyed his canvases, large, small, and medium-sized, and,
in direct contravention of their professed object in life, had refused
to deal. Only one of them, a man with grimy hands but a moderately
golden heart, after passing a sepia thumb over some of the more
ambitious works, had offered him fifteen dollars for a little sketch
which he had made in an energetic moment of William Bannister crawling
on the floor. This, the dealer asserted, was the sort of "darned mushy
stuff" the public fell for, and he held it to be worth the fifteen, but
not a cent more. Kirk, humble by now, accepted three battered-looking
bills and departed.
He had a long talk with Ruth that night, and rose from it in the frame
of mind which in some men is induced by prayer. Ruth was quite
marvellously sensible and sympathetic.
"I wanted you," she said in answer to his self-reproaches, "and here we
are, together. It's simply nonsense to talk about ruining my life and
dragging me down. What does it matter about this money? We have
got plenty left."
"We've got about as much left as you used to spend on hats in the old
days."
"Well, we can easily make it do. I've thought for some time that we
were growing too extravagant. And talking of hats, I had no right to
have that last one you bought me. It was wickedly expensive. We can
economize there, at any rate. We can get along splendidly on what you
have now. Besides, directly you settle down and start to paint, we
shall be quite rich again."
Kirk laughed grimly.
"I wish you were a dealer," he said. "Fifteen dollars is what I have
managed to extract from them so far. One of the Great Unwashed on Sixth
Avenue gave me that for that sketch I did of Bill on the floor."
"Which took you about three minutes to do," Ruth pointed out
triumphantly. "You see! You're bound to make a fortune if you stick to
it."
Kirk put his arm round her and gave her a silent hug of gratitude. He
had dreaded this talk, and lo! it was putting new life into him.
They sat for a few moments in silence.
"I don't deserve it," said Kirk at last. "Instead of comforting me like
this, and making me think I'm rather a fine sort of a fellow, you ought
to be lashing me with scorpions. I don't suppose any man has ever made
such a criminal idiot of himself in this city before."
"You couldn't tell that this stock was going to fail."
"No; but I could have done some work these last three years and made
it not matter whether it failed or not. You can't comfort me out of
that knowledge. I knew all along that I was being a waster and a loafer,
but I was so happy that I didn't mind. I was so interested in seeing
what you and the kid would do next that I didn't seem to have time to
work. And the result is that I've gone right back.
"There was a time when I really could paint a bit. Not much, it's true,
but enough to get along with. Well, I'm going to start it again in
earnest now, and if I don't make good, well, there's always Hank's
offer."
Ruth turned a little pale. They had discussed Hank's offer before, but
then life had been bright and cloudless and Hank's offer a thing to
smile at. Now it had assumed an uncomfortably practical aspect.
"You will make good," said Ruth.
"I'll do my best," said Kirk. But even as he spoke his mind was
pondering on the proposition which Hank had made.
Hank, always flitting from New York into the unknown and back again,
had called at the studio one evening, after a long absence, looking
sick and tired. He was one of those lean, wiry men whom it is unusual
to see in this condition, and Kirk was sympathetic and inquisitive.
Hank needed no pressing. He was full of his story.
"I've been in Colombia," he said. "I got back on a fruit-steamer this
morning. Do you know anything of Colombia?"
Kirk reflected.
"Only that there's generally a revolution there," he said.
"There wasn't anything of that kind this trip, except in my interior."
Hank pulled thoughtfully at his pipe. The odour of his remarkable brand
of tobacco filled the studio. "I've had a Hades of a time," he said
simply.
Kirk looked at him curiously. Hank was in a singularly chastened mood
to-night.
"What took you there?"
"Gold."
"Gold? Mining?"
Hank nodded.
"I didn't know there were gold-mines in that part of the world," said
Kirk.
"There are. The gold that filled the holds of Spanish galleons in the
sixteenth century came from Colombia. The place is simply stiff with
old Spanish relics."
"But surely the mines must have been worked out ages ago."
"Only on the surface."
Kirk laughed.
"How do you mean, only on the surface? Explain. I don't know a thing
about gold, except that getting it out of picture-dealers is like
getting blood out of a turnip."
"It's simple enough. The earth hoards its gold in two ways. There's
auriferous rock and auriferous dirt. If the stuff is in the rock, you
crush it. If it's in the dirt, you wash it."
"It sounds simple."
"It is. The difficult part is finding it."
"And you have done that?"
"I have. Or I'm practically certain I have. At any rate, I know that I
have discovered the ditches made by the Spaniards three hundred years
ago. If there was gold there in those days there is apt to be gold
there now. Only it isn't on the surface any longer. They cleaned up as
far as the surface is concerned, so I have to sink shafts and dig
tunnels."
"I see. It isn't so simple as it used to be."
"It is, practically, if you have any knowledge of mining."
"Well, what's your trouble?" asked Kirk. "Why did you come back? Why
aren't you out there grabbing it with both hands and getting yourself
into shape to be a walking gold-mine to your friends? I don't like to
see this idle spirit in you, Hank."
Hank smoked long and thoughtfully.
"Kirk," he said suddenly.
"Well?"
Hank shook his head.
"No, it's no good."
"What is no good? What do you mean?"
"I came back," said Hank, suddenly lucid, "with a wild notion of
getting you to come in with me on this thing."
"What! Go to Colombia with you?"
Hank nodded.
"But, of course, it's not possible. It's no job for a married man."
"Why not? If this gold of yours is just lying about in heaps it seems
to me that a married man is exactly the man who ought to be around
grabbing it. Or do you believe that old yarn about two being able to
live as cheaply as one? Take it from me, it's not so. If there is gold
waiting to be gathered up in handfuls, me for it. When do we start? Can
I bring Ruth and the kid?"
"I wish we could start. If I could have had you with me these last few
months I'd never have quit. But I guess it's out of the question.
You've no idea what sort of an inferno it is, and I won't let you come
into it with your eyes shut. But if ever you are in a real tight corner
let me know. It might be worth your while then to take a few risks."
"Oh! there are risks?"
"Risks! My claims are located along the Atrato River in the Choco