“My dearest boy,” it ran, “I believe, in the press of anxious business, your letters and even your allowance have been somewhile neglected.  You must try to forgive your poor old dad, for he has had a trying time; and now when it is over, the doctor wants me to take my shotgun and go to the Adirondacks for a change.  You must not fancy I am sick, only over-driven and under the weather.  Many of our foremost operators have gone down:  John T. M’Brady skipped to Canada with a trunkful of boodle; Billy Sandwith, Charlie Downs, Joe Kaiser, and many others of our leading men in this city bit the dust.  But Big-Head Dodd has again weathered the blizzard, and I think I have fixed things so that we may be richer than ever before autumn.

“Now I will tell you, my dear, what I propose.  You say you are well advanced with your first statue; start in manfully and finish it, and if your teacher—­I can never remember how to spell his name—­will send me a certificate that it is up to market standard, you shall have ten thousand dollars to do what you like with, either at home or in Paris.  I suggest, since you say the facilities for work are so much greater in that city, you would do well to buy or build a little home; and the first thing you know, your dad will be dropping in for a luncheon.  Indeed, I would come now, for I am beginning to grow old, and I long to see my dear boy; but there are still some operations that want watching and nursing.  Tell your friend, Mr. Pinkerton, that I read his letters every week; and though I have looked in vain lately for my Loudon’s name, still I learn something of the life he is leading in that strange, old world, depicted by an able pen.”

Here was a letter that no young man could possibly digest in solitude.  It marked one of those junctures when the confidant is necessary; and the confidant selected was none other than Jim Pinkerton.  My father’s message may have had an influence in this decision; but I scarce suppose so, for the intimacy was already far advanced.  I had a genuine and lively taste for my compatriot; I laughed at, I scolded, and I loved him.  He, upon his side, paid me a kind of doglike service of admiration, gazing at me from afar off as at one who had liberally enjoyed those “advantages” which he envied for himself.  He followed at heel; his laugh was ready chorus; our friends gave him the nickname of “The Henchman.”  It was in this insidious form that servitude approached me.

Pinkerton and I read and re-read the famous news:  he, I can swear, with an enjoyment as unalloyed and far more vocal than my own.  The statue was nearly done:  a few days’ work sufficed to prepare it for exhibition; the master was approached; he gave his consent; and one cloudless morning of May beheld us gathered in my studio for the hour of trial.  The master wore his many-hued rosette; he came attended by two of my French fellow-pupils—­friends of mine and both considerable sculptors in Paris at