Reaching the easel he picked up the canvas that
rested upon it, stared at it for a moment--and with a grunt of disdain
flung it away from him to the ground.
There was a crash as it struck the floor, a ripping sound as the
canvas split, and with a pitiful cry Smarlinghue rushed forward and
snatched it up.
"It--it was sold," he choked. "I--I was to get the money to-morrow. I
have had bad luck for a month--nothing sold but this--and now--and
now--" He drew himself up suddenly, and, with the ruined painting
clutched to his breast, shook his other fist wildly. "You have no right
here!" he screamed in fury. "Do you hear! I have not done anything! I
tell you, I have not done anything! You have no right here! I will make
you pay for this! I will! I will!" His voice was rising in a shrill
falsetto. "I will make you--"
"You hold your tongue," growled Clancy savagely, "or I'll give you
something more than an old chromo to make a row about! I don't want any
mass meeting of your kind of citizens. Get that?" He caught Smarlinghue
roughly by the shoulder, and pushed him into a chair near the table.
"Sit down there, and close your jaw!"
Cowed, Smarlinghue's voice dropped to a mumble, and he let the torn
canvas slip from his fingers to the floor.
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