CHAPTER II.

CONSOLATIONS OF HIGH ART.

Marcus walked slowly toward Broadway, musing and unhappy.  To a man of his delicate and hyper-sensitive nature, an event of this kind was a vast disturbance.  He felt that this anonymous letter was but the forerunner of a long series of troubles.  That prescience which nervous people have of misfortunes portrayed to him a future black with disappointments and dangers.

“Hallo, Mark!  What’s the matter?  You look as sad as a low comedian by daylight!” Previous to this salutation came a ringing slap on the left shoulder.

Marcus rather liked familiarities; but the slap, coming on him when his nerves were unstrung, startled him.  He turned sharply; but the stern and indignant face wreathed into amiable smiles, when he saw that the lively gentleman behind him was only Wesley Tiffles.  Everybody liked Wesley Tiffles; even those who bore the burden of his unlucky financial schemes uniting in cheerful testimony to his charming, companionable qualities.  His presence was like a ray of sunlight to Marcus Wilkeson’s beclouded mind; and when Wesley Tiffles hooked an arm in his (as he did to everybody on the second day of their acquaintance), Marcus felt his perplexities passing away from him, like electricity on a conducting rod.

Wesley Tiffles and his single diamond (the latter from the background of a third day’s shirt) shone on him together; and Marcus laughed merrily in reply: 

“I don’t look sad now,” said he.  “I’m glad to see you, Tiffles.  What are you driving at now, eh?”

This question was continually poked at Tiffles.  He changed his business so often.

“At the panorama of Africa, to be sure,” said Tiffles.  “It is a great idea, and I am constant to it, although several capital schemes have occurred to me since I first thought of it.  But Africa deserves, and shall have the precedence.”

“Oh! yes—­I remember.  And how far have you got along with this great work?”

“It’s almost finished, thank you.  Patching is the artist.  You know Patching, of course—­one of the most promising painters of the modern school.  There were several Patchings very much praised by the Sunday papers, at the last National Academy Exhibition, though the hanging committee put them either among the dirt or the cobwebs.  This conspiracy against Patching is far-reaching.  It would seem as if his rivals of the Academy actually went about town calling upon people, and cautioning them not to buy Patchings.  Indeed, to such an extent has this outrageous attempt to put down a fellow artist been carried, that I know of but one Patching to be publicly seen in the city.  It is an attic interior—­a sweet thing, quite equal to Frere, and hangs behind a bar near Spring street.  Perhaps you would like to examine it?”

“Hem!  Not to-day.  Some other time,” answered Marcus, who, strangely enough, interpreted the question as an invitation to drink at his (Marcus’s) expense.