Children of the Whirlwind | Page 5

the swirling black tide which raced through East
River. That painter was a beast! Yes, and a fool!
But quickly the painter was forgotten, and once more her mind reverted
to Larry--at last Larry was coming back!--only to have the painter, after
a minute, interrupt her excited imagination with:
"What's the matter with your tongue, Maggie? Generally you stab back
with it quick enough."
She turned, still sulky and silent, and gazed with cynical superiority at
the easel. "Nuts"--it was Barney Palmer who had thus lightly
rechristened the painter when he had set up his studio in the attic above

the pawnshop six months before--Nuts was transferring the seamy,
cunning face of her father, "Old Jimmie" Carlisle, to the canvas with
swift, unhesitating strokes.
"For the lova Christ and the twelve apostles, including that piker
Judas," woefully intoned Old Jimmie from the model's chair, "lemme
get down off this platform!"
"Move and I'll wipe my palette off on that Mardi Gras vest of yours!"
grunted the big painter autocratically through his mouthful of brushes.
"O God--and I got a cramp in my back, and my neck's gone to sleep!"
groaned Old Jimmie, leaning forward on his cane. "Daughter, dear"--
plaintively to Maggie--"what is the crazy gentleman doing to me?"
"It's an awful smear, father." Maggie spoke slightingly, but with a tone
of doubt. It was not the sort of picture that eighteen has been taught to
like--yet the picture did possess an intangible something that provoked
doubt as to its quality. "You sure do look one old burglar!"
"Not a cheap burglar?"--hopefully.
"Naw!" exploded the man at the easel in his big voice, first taking the
brushes from his mouth. "You're a swell-looking old pirate!--ready to
loot the sub-treasury and then scuttle the old craft with all hands on
board! A breathing, speaking, robbing likeness!"
"Maggie's right, and Nuts's right," put in Barney Palmer. "It's sure a
rotten picture, and then again it sure looks like you, Jimmie."
The smartly dressed Barney--Barney could not keep away from
Broadway tailors and haberdashers with their extravagant designs and
color schemes--dismissed the insignificant matter of the portrait, and
resumed the really important matter which had brought him to her.
"Are you certain, Maggie, that the Duchess hasn't heard from Larry?"
"If she has, she hasn't mentioned it. But why don't you ask her

yourself?"
"I did, but she wouldn't say a thing. You can't get a word out of the
Duchess with a jimmy, unless she wants to talk--and she never wants to
talk." He turned his sharp, narrowly set eyes upon the lean old man.
"It's got me guessing, Jimmie. Larry was due out of Sing Sing
yesterday, and we haven't had a peep from him, and though she won't
talk I'm sure he hasn't been here to see his grandmother."
"Sure is funny," agreed Old Jimmie. "But mebbe Larry has broke
straight into a fresh game and is playing a lone hand. He's a quick
worker, Larry is--and he's got nerve."
"Well, whatever's keeping him we're tied up till Larry comes." Barney
turned back to Maggie. "I say, sister, how about robing yourself in your
raiment of joy and coming with yours truly to a palace of jazz, there to
dine and show the populace what real dancing is?"
"Can't, Barney. Mr. Hunt"--the name given the painter at his original
christening--"asked the Duchess and me to have dinner up here. He's to
cook it himself."
"For your sake I hope he cooks better than he paints." And sliding
down in his chair until he rested upon a more comfortable vertebra, the
elegant Barney lit a monogrammed cigarette, and with idle patience
swung his bamboo stick.
"You're half an hour late, Maggie," Hunt began at her again in his
rumbling voice. "Can't stand for such a waste of my time!"
"How about my time?" retorted Maggie, who indeed had a grievance.
"I was supposed to have the day off, but instead I had to carry that tray
of cigarettes around till the last person in the Ritzmore had finished
lunch. Anyhow," she added, "I don't see that your time's worth so much
when you spend it on such painty messes as these."
"It's not up to you to tell me what my time's worth!" retorted Hunt. "I
pay you--that's enough for you!... Because you weren't on time, I stuck

Old Jimmie out there to finish off this picture. I'll be through with the
old cut-throat in ten minutes. Be ready to take his place."
"All right," said Maggie sulkily.
For all his roaring she was not much afraid of the painter. While his
brushes flicked at, and streaked across, the canvas she stood idly
watching him. He was in paint-smeared, baggy trousers and a soft shirt
whose open collar gave a glimpse of a deep