But the bailiff stayed on, and the day of sale approached; so Whistler, having been educated at West Point, determined to practise strategy.  Some one had told him that a mixture of snuff and beer had the property of sending people off to sleep.  So he bought a big parcel of snuff and put the greater part of it into a gigantic tankard of beer, which he sent out to the bailiff in the garden.  It was a very hot summer afternoon, and the man eagerly welcomed his refreshment.  Whistler was in his studio painting and soon forgot all about him.  In the evening he said to his servant, “Where’s the man?” The servant replied:  “I don’t know, sir.  I suppose he must have gone away.”

The next morning Whistler got up very late and went out into the garden, where he was astonished to see the bailiff sitting in precisely the same position as the day before.  The empty tankard was on the table beside him and his pipe had fallen from his hand upon the grass.  “Hello, my sleeping beauty!” said Whistler.  “Have you been there all night?” But the man made no answer, and all the painter’s efforts to rouse him were unavailing.  Late in the afternoon, however, he awoke in the most natural way in the world, exclaiming that it was dreadfully hot weather and that he must have been asleep over an hour.  Whistler’s strategy had been even more successful than he anticipated; the bailiff had slept through the entire day appointed for the sale of the painter’s household effects, and was induced to go away in a very bewildered state of mind and with a small payment on account in his pocket.

* * * * *

Lady de Grey went once to the Tite Street studio for luncheon and chided Whistler for his extravagance in having two man servants to wait on the table, when he was always complaining of being hard up.

“Hush!” whispered Whistler.  “One of them is the man in possession, and he has consented to act as footman for the day; but he asks me to please settle up as soon as possible, because he too has a man in possession at his own place and wants to get clear of him.”

* * * * *

Once at a garden party the rapt hostess rushed up to the artist and exclaimed: 

“Oh, Mr. Whistler!  Do help me out!  I have just bought a magnificent Turner, but Lord——­says it isn’t genuine, merely a clever imitation.  Now I want you to look at it, and if you say it is genuine, as I know you will, I shall be perfectly satisfied.”

“My dear lady,” replied Whistler, “you expect a good deal of me.  The distinction between a real Turner and an imitation Turner is so extremely subtle.”

* * * * *

A flippant reply to the secretary of a London club where Whistler’s account was past due produced this retort—­and the money was paid: 

“DEAR MR. WHISTLER:—­It is not a Nocturne in Purple or a Symphony in Blue and Gray we are after, but an Arrangement in Gold and Silver.”