'You're a kind of artist, I suppose--eh!' said Mr Tappertit.
'Yes,' rejoined Dennis; 'yes--I may call myself a artist--a fancy
workman--art improves natur'--that's my motto.'
'And what do you call this?' said Mr Tappertit taking his stick out of
his hand.
'That's my portrait atop,' Dennis replied; 'd'ye think it's like?'
'Why--it's a little too handsome,' said Mr Tappertit. 'Who did it? You?'
'I!' repeated Dennis, gazing fondly on his image. 'I wish I had the
talent. That was carved by a friend of mine, as is now no more. The very
day afore he died, he cut that with his pocket-knife from memory! "I'll
die game," says my friend, "and my last moments shall be dewoted to
making Dennis's picter." That's it.'
'That was a queer fancy, wasn't it?' said Mr Tappertit.
'It WAS a queer fancy,' rejoined the other, breathing on his fictitious
nose, and polishing it with the cuff of his coat, 'but he was a queer
subject altogether--a kind of gipsy--one of the finest, stand-up men,
you ever see. Ah! He told me some things that would startle you a bit,
did that friend of mine, on the morning when he died.'
'You were with him at the time, were you?' said Mr Tappertit.
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