When Harry reached the Jolly Roger the next forenoon Jack arose from his place on the sunny deck and walked forward to meet her, wagging his tail in cordial welcome. As she spoke to him Mr. Cole heard her voice and put his head out of one of the studio windows.

“Good morning,” he said. “Come aboard. I’m just getting my things ready.”

From the stern of the boat she saw that the little cedar tender was floating in the water at the end of its painter and that the oars which lay across the seats were still wet. Evidently the artist had been out rowing.

“I’m going to ask you to sit up top,” said Mr. Cole, emerging from the studio with an easel tucked under one arm and a paint-box in his hand. “It’ll be cooler there, I guess, and the light’s better than down here.” He led the way up the steps and Harry followed. “Now just make yourself comfortable for a moment, please. You’ll find that big rocker fairly easy, and there are some magazines on the table. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He swung himself down the steps in two strides, and Harry heard him singing to himself in his mellow bass as he moved about underneath. Obediently she picked up a magazine from the willow table and perched herself in the big green rocker, but it was far more interesting to look around her than to study the pages of the magazine. It was so pretty up here. The bright rugs underfoot echoed the colors of the blossoms in the boxes around the edge. The faded awning overhead filtered the ardent sunlight to a soft, mellow glow. Framed by the flowers and the fluttering scallops of the canopy was a picture of blue water aglint in the sunlight, a purple-shadowed shore and a green hill arising to the fleece-flecked sky. It promised to be a very warm day, but as yet the morning breeze still stole up the river. The door of the little pilot-house was open and Harry could see the steering-wheel with its brass hub and rim, a little shelf of folded charts and several gleaming brass switches and pulls which she supposed connected with the engine-room. At that moment the artist climbed the stairs again, a clean creamy-white canvas and a bunch of brushes in one hand and a white box in the other. He handed the box to Harry.

“I pay in advance, you see,” he said smilingly.

“Oh,” said Harry in concern, as she opened the box and glanced at the name on the lid, “you had to go ’way down to the Cove for this! You oughtn’t to have done that, Mr. Cole!”

“What? Why, it’s no more than a mile, I’m sure; just a nice after-breakfast row. I enjoyed it, really. But I’m afraid the candy isn’t very good. However, you probably know what to expect; you doubtless know all about Silver Cove confectionery.”

As he talked he set up his easel at one side of the deck, got out his palette and began to squeeze wonderful blots of color on to it.

“It’s very nice candy,” answered Harry earnestly. “Won’t—won’t you have some?”

Mr. Cole glanced at his hands, the fingers of which were already stained with paint, and hesitated. Then:

“Suppose you feed me a piece,” he said. He came over to her and leaned down with his mouth open.

“What do you like,” laughed Harry.

“Oh, something with nuts in it, I guess,” he replied.

“Well, I think there’s a nut in this, but I’m not sure.” She popped a chocolate into the open mouth and watched anxiously while he bit into it. After a moment of suspense he nodded his head vigorously.

“Right,” he said, returning to his palette. “That was a good guess. Do you know, I think they ought to mark the pieces that have nuts in them so we could tell, don’t you?”

Harry said she thought that was a very good plan, the while she cuddled the big four-pound box to her and munched happily at a nougat. It was very interesting to see the paint come squirming out of the tubes. Each succeeding tube was a new surprise. She wondered why he needed so many, many colors to paint her since she was all in white save for the tan shoes and stockings and the dainty blue ribbon at her waist. Then, as a flash of orange vermilion joined the other mounds of color, she wondered in consternation whether that was for her hair! Presently the palette was set, the canvas on the easel and all in readiness. Then the artist stood up and looked at his model. Harry began to feel nervous. Maybe she wasn’t as pret—well, as nice looking this morning! Maybe he was disappointed in her! Oh, he was, for he was frowning!

“My dear child,” he said, “what have you done to your hair?”

“N-nothing,” faltered Harry. “At least, I just put it up in a different way. Mama thought it would look nicer. She says I always have my hair so untidy. So I—I made it neat. Don’t you like it?”

“Yes, indeed,” he answered heartily, “it looks very nice that way, but for my purpose the other way was the better. You know, artists are strange persons with unaccountable tastes. I don’t suppose you could rearrange it, could you, as you wore it yesterday?”

“Oh, yes, I can; that is, I could if I had another ribbon. I guess you wouldn’t have one, would you?”

“What kind of a ribbon?” he asked.

“Oh, just any old ribbon would do; just to tie around the end, you know.”

“Well, now you run down and skirmish around. Maybe you’ll find something. How would a ribbon off one of the curtains in the sitting-room do? They’re white, but that wouldn’t matter to me.”

So Harry disappeared for a few minutes, and when she returned her beautiful coronet was gone and her hair was once more down her back in two shimmering red-gold braids.

“That’s more like it,” said Mr. Cole. “Now, if you’ll just sit here in this chair. That’s it. Could you turn your head a little more toward the side? Just make believe that you are very much interested in something that’s going on across the river. That’s it! Fine! Just hold it that way for a few minutes; not too stiff, or you’ll tire the muscles. Now the hands—there, just folded loosely in the lap. That’s stunning! Hm!” He backed away toward his easel, observing her through half-closed eyes. “Now you must forgive me if I’m not very entertaining, for I’m liable to forget my duties as host when I get at work. But you might talk to me, if you like, and tell me about yourself. I suppose you have a pretty good time living at a big boys’ school as you do?”

His voice trailed off into a murmur and Harry could hear the soft sound of the charcoal on the canvas, although, as her head was turned away, she could not see the rapid, deft strokes of his hand. It wasn’t hard for Harry to talk, and here was a fine opportunity. So she made the most of it for some little time, the artist throwing in an occasional word or question which, if not always especially apropos, encouraged the sitter to continue. But finally Harry noticed that the replies had ceased and so she allowed the one-sided conversation to lapse. She was getting rather tired of looking at the shore, across the dazzling river, and her neck was beginning to feel stiff; also her hands simply wouldn’t keep still in her lap. Unconsciously she emitted a deep sigh and the man at the easel heard it, looked up quickly, smiled, and:

“Rest, please,” he said. “Walk around a minute and have some more candy.”

“Could I see it?” asked Harry as she obeyed. But the artist shook his head.

“There’s nothing to see yet,” he replied. “You’d be disappointed and perhaps throw up your job or demand higher wages. Wait until the sitting’s over.”

As he talked and as Harry strolled around the deck, not forgetting to return at frequent intervals to the box on the table, he worked on at the canvas, shooting little glances at her and painting rapidly.

“I’m rested now,” said Harry presently. “Shall I sit down again?”

“Please, and take the same position. That’s it, only please lean the body a little further back. Thank you. Just a little while longer now.”

Then silence fell over the Jolly Roger again, broken by the movements of the painter or the lazy stirring of Jack on the deck below. The sun crept upward and the heat grew. After all, reflected Harry, it wasn’t such good fun, this sitting for your picture! She knew she would have a headache pretty soon if he didn’t let her go. She wished Roy and Dick and Chub would come, as they had promised, and set her free. She closed her tired eyes against the blur of the sunlit water, but:

“The eyes, please, Miss Emery,” said the artist. “Thank you.”

Another period of silence, and then:

“There!” said Mr. Cole. “That’ll do for this time. Would you like to see it now?”

Harry stared at the canvas in bewilderment. The picture wasn’t at all as she had expected to find it. There she sat in a green willow chair, to be sure, and there was the river beyond and the shore beyond that, but the green chair had turned very dark, the river was a radiant, magical blue and the woods on the shore were just a lot of broad blue-green brush-strokes. As for herself—well, it wasn’t finished yet, as the painter reminded her, but if she looked anything like the girl on the canvas she would be happy for ever and ever! And if her hair was anywhere near as beautiful as that golden-red mass she would never be dissatisfied with it again as long as she lived! Mr. Cole watched her amusedly as she stood in rapt contemplation of the picture with the color heightening in her soft cheeks. Perhaps he guessed her thoughts, for:

“I’m afraid I haven’t done full justice to my subject,” he said, “but the next sitting will remedy that somewhat. The detail comes later, you know. You’re not disappointed, I trust?”

“Disappointed!” breathed Harry. “I think it’s beautiful! Only—only—” she paused, “I suppose artists are like photographers, aren’t they? I mean that they sort of change things to suit themselves?”

“Change things? Oh, yes, sometimes; that is, we idealize things. What are you thinking of, the water?”

“Yes, and—”

“I deepened it a few shades. It throws out the figure, you see. Observe how the white gown stands out against it.”

“Ye-es,” said Harry, “and I daresay you have to flatter folks too, don’t you? Idealize them, I mean.”

“Sometimes, but not on this occasion,” replied the artist smilingly. Harry gave a gasp.

“Do you mean,” she cried, turning to him with wide eyes, “that I really look like that?”

“Well, as near as I could do it, young lady, I put you into that picture just as you are. I hope I haven’t made you vain?”

But Harry was looking raptly at the picture again. Presently:

“Yes, I guess it’s me,” she sighed, coming out of her trance, “for there’s my horrid little snub nose!”

“A very interesting nose,” replied the artist. “Not classic, perhaps, but human. And put there, I fancy, for a good purpose.”

“What?” asked Harry.

“To keep you from getting over-vain,” was the response. “Ah, here come your squires.”

The Pup came chugging alongside and Dick gave a hail. Harry and Mr. Cole went to the railing.

“Come aboard,” cried the artist. “Hitch your steed and come up, and let’s have your judgment on the picture.”

A moment later they were all clustered about the canvas, emitting various exclamations of admiration. It was Chub who finally summed up the sentiments of the three in one terse sentence.

“It’s a James Dandy!” he said emphatically.

“Do you think—it looks much like me?” asked Harry with elaborate carelessness. Chub grinned at her.

“Well, it’s got your nose,” he answered.

Harry’s mouth drooped until Roy cut in with an indignant: “Don’t you mind him, Harry. It’s a bully likeness. I’d know it anywhere!”

“So would I,” said Dick. “Chub’s just teasing.” And Chub owned up that he was.

“Say, don’t you love the colors, though?” asked Roy eagerly. “Why, that blue looks good enough to eat!” He turned toward the artist with a new respect. “I guess you’re a cracker-jack, sir.”

“Oh, you’re all too flattering,” laughed Mr. Cole. “You’ll never make art critics of yourselves unless you restrain your enthusiasm. I will acknowledge, though, that I’ve been rather successful with this; it’s one of the best figure studies I’ve ever done; and much of my success has been due to my subject who proved quite a model model, if I may use such an expression.”

Harry smiled shyly and recollecting the candy, passed it around.

“Me, I don’t care for any,” said Chub as he scooped up a handful. Then they sat down and had a nice cozy talk up there on the roof-deck, and ate candy to their hearts’—or rather their stomachs’—content. Presently Chub asked:

“Wasn’t it funny, Mr. Cole, that you should meet Billy Noon here?”

“Why, yes, it was,” was the answer. “Still, Noon’s the sort of a chap that you’re likely to come across in strange places and when you least expect to.”

“Have you known him long?” asked Chub in politely conversational tones. The artist suppressed a smile.

“For several years,” he replied.

“He seems to have tried all sorts of trades,” continued Chub, nothing daunted. “He says he’s been a dentist, a clown in a circus, a sleight-of-hand performer, a ventriloquist, a—a—”

“Book agent,” prompted Dick.

“Engineer,” supplied Roy.

“Yes,” Chub went on, “and a poet.”

“Indeed,” laughed the artist, “I’d never heard of that. How did you find that out?”

So Chub told him about the missing bread and butter and the verses substituted, about the fish and the poem written on birch bark, and so worked around to Billy’s experience with the Great Indian Chief Medicine Company.

“Well, he’s tried his hand at lots of things,” said Mr. Cole, “and strangely enough he does everything well. I haven’t any doubt but that if I could persuade Noon to take the Roger to sell for me he’d find a buyer inside of a week.”

“Couldn’t you?” asked Dick. The artist shook his head.

“I’m afraid not,” he answered. “He’s a pretty busy person.”

“But I should think it would pay him better than selling books,” Chub insisted. Mr. Cole smiled mysteriously.

“Noon’s book-selling is a bigger thing than you think,” he replied.