tablecloth at the top of the stick is not my flag; it's my partner's.

He is not dead, but sleepeth. There he is," he added, pointing to a bust

which formed one of the numerous unexpected ornaments of that unusual

cabin.

Havens politely studied it. "A fine bust," said he; "and a very

nice-looking fellow."

"Yes; he's a good fellow," said Dodd. "He runs me now. It's all his

money."

"He doesn't seem to be particularly short of it," added the other,

peering with growing wonder round the cabin.

"His money, my taste," said Dodd. "The black-walnut bookshelves are Old

English; the books all mine,--mostly Renaissance French. You should see

how the beach-combers wilt away when they go round them looking for a

change of Seaside Library novels. The mirrors are genuine Venice; that's

a good piece in the corner. The daubs are mine--and his; the mudding

mine."

"Mudding? What is that?" asked Havens.

"These bronzes," replied Dodd. "I began life as a sculptor."

"Yes; I remember something about that," said the other. "I think, too,

you said you were interested in Californian real estate."

"Surely, I never went so far as that," said Dodd. "Interested? I guess

not. Involved, perhaps. I was born an artist; I never took an interest

in anything but art. If I were to pile up this old schooner to-morrow,"

he added, "I declare I believe I would try the thing again!"

"Insured?" inquired Havens.

"Yes," responded Dodd. "There's some fool in 'Frisco who insures us, and

comes down like a wolf on the fold on the profits; but we'll get even

with him some day."

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