gone, and because he remembered all the tumult and the pain.
“It is over now,” said Horse Hines gently. “He is at peace.”
“By God, Mr. Hines,” said the sailor earnestly, as he wiped his eyes on his jacket, “that was one g-g-great boy.”
Horse Hines looked raptly at the cold strange face.
“A fine boy,” he murmured as his fish-eye fell tenderly on his work. “And I have tried to do him justice.”
They were silent for a moment, looking.
“You’ve d-d-done a fine job,” said the sailor. “I’ve got to hand it to you. What do you say,’Gene?”
“Yes,” said Eugene, in a small choking voice. “Yes.”
“He’s a b-b-b-bit p-p-p-pale, don’t you think?” the sailor stammered, barely conscious of what he was saying.
“Just a moment!” said Horse Hines quickly, lifting a finger. Briskly he took a stick of rouge from his pocket, stepped forward, and deftly, swiftly, sketched upon the dead gray cheeks a ghastly rose-hued mockery of life and health.
“There!” he said, with deep satisfaction; and, rouge-stick in hand, head critically cocked, like a painter before his canvas, he stepped back into the terrible staring prison of their horror.
“There are artists, boys, in every profession,” Horse Hines continued in a moment, with quiet pride, “and though I do say it myself, Luke, I’m proud of my work on this job. Look at him!” he exclaimed with sudden energy, and a bit of color in his gray face. “Did you ever see anything more natural in your life?”
Eugene turned upon the man a grim and purple stare, noting with pity, with a sort of tenderness, as the dogs of laughter tugged at his straining throat the earnestness and pride in the long horse— face.
“Look at it!” said Horse Hines again in slow wonder. “I’ll never beat that again! Not if I live to be a million! That’s art, boys!”
A slow strangling gurgle escaped from Eugene’s screwed lips. The sailor looked quickly at him, with a crazy suppressed smile.
“What’s the matter?” he said warningly. “Don’t, fool!” His grin broke loose.
Eugene staggered across the floor and collapsed upon a chair, roaring
