“Oh, John, friend of my boyhood, I am the unhappiest
of men.”
“You’re a simpleton!”
“I have nothing left to love but my poor statue
of America—and see, even she has no sympathy
for me in her cold marble countenance—so
beautiful and so heartless!”
“You’re a dummy!”
“Oh, John!”
Oh, fudge! Didn’t you say you had six
months to raise the money in?”
“Don’t deride my agony, John. If
I had six centuries what good would it do? How
could it help a poor wretch without name, capital,
or friends?”
“Idiot! Coward! Baby! Six
months to raise the money in—and five will
do!”
“Are you insane?”
“Six months—an abundance. Leave
it to me. I’ll raise it.”
“What do you mean, John? How on earth
can you raise such a monstrous sum for me?”
“Will you let that be my business, and not meddle?
Will you leave the thing in my hands? Will
you swear to submit to whatever I do? Will you
pledge me to find no fault with my actions?”
“I am dizzy—bewildered—but
I swear.”
John took up a hammer and deliberately smashed the
nose of America! He made another pass and two
of her fingers fell to the floor—another,
and part of an ear came away—another, and
a row of toes was mangled and dismembered—another,
and the left leg, from the knee down, lay a fragmentary
ruin!
John put on his hat and departed.
George gazed speechless upon the battered and grotesque
nightmare before him for the space of thirty seconds,
and then wilted to the floor and went into convulsions.
John returned presently with a carriage, got the broken-hearted
artist and the broken-legged statue aboard, and drove
off, whistling low and tranquilly.
He left the artist at his lodgings, and drove off
and disappeared down the Via Quirinalis with the statue.
[Scene—The Studio.]
“The six months will be up at two o’clock
to-day! Oh, agony! My life is blighted.
I would that I were dead. I had no supper yesterday.
I have had no breakfast to-day. I dare not
enter an eating-house. And hungry? —don’t
mention it! My bootmaker duns me to death—my
tailor duns me —my landlord haunts me.
I am miserable. I haven’t seen John since
that awful day. She smiles on me tenderly when
we meet in the great thoroughfares, but her old flint
of a father makes her look in the other direction
in short order. Now who is knocking at that door?
Who is come to persecute me? That malignant
villain the bootmaker, I’ll warrant. Come
in!”
“Ah, happiness attend your highness—Heaven
be propitious to your grace! I have brought my
lord’s new boots—ah, say nothing about
the pay, there is no hurry, none in the world.
Shall be proud if my noble lord will continue to
honor me with his custom—ah, adieu!”
