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 for the picture—without the frame. How are you going to cram a thing like that down the throat of a legislature that kicks about a little item in the expense bill of six hundred and eighty-one dollars for rubber erasers for only one term? It’s wasting time. I’d like to help you, Mullens, but they’d laugh us out of the Senate chamber if we were to try it.”

“But you don’t get the point,” said Senator Mullens, in his deliberate tones, tapping Kinney’s glass with his long forefinger. “I have my own doubts as to what the picture is intended to represent, a bullfight or a Japanese allegory, but I want this legislature to make an appropriation to purchase. Of course, the subject of the picture should have been in the state historical line, but it’s too late to have the paint scraped off and changed. The state won’t miss the money and the picture can be stowed away in a lumber-room where it won’t annoy any one. Now, here’s the point to work on, leaving art to look after itself—the chap that painted the picture is the grandson of Lucien Briscoe.”

“Say it again,” said Kinney, leaning his head thoughtfully. “Of the old, original Lucien Briscoe?”

“Of him. ‘The man who,’ you know. The man who carved the state out of the wilderness. The man who settled the Indians. The man who cleaned out the horse thieves. The man who refused the crown. The state’s favourite son. Do you see the point now?”

“Wrap up the picture,” said Kinney. “It’s as good as sold. Why didn’t you say that at first, instead of philandering along about art. I’ll resign my seat in the