Just the sort of sea-breeze to blow away the odour of sanctity. Francis was conscious of his notebook, which marked him as an artist. But where many a boy would have made a parade of what he was doing, and attracted attention from adults who wanted to see what he was up to, he mastered the trick of sitting quietly, making his rapid sketches without signalling.

A few weeks after Christmas he was able to go outside for limited airings, but he was not anxious to attract attention from Nosy Parkers who would want to know why he was in the streets when all decent boys were either in school, or at home with infantile paralysis, or simply with swollen glands. Not to be easily noticed is an acquirement, as is always being noticed; Francis studied the art of invisibility, and made sketches wherever he was.

He was perched on a bale of straw in the stable one February day, making sketches of the horses as they ate, when Zadok Hoyle said to him: “Frank, it’s a fine day and I have to go over to The Portage this afternoon; why don’t you ask your Aunt if you can come with me?” Aunt demurred a little, but finally said yes, he might go, but he must be well bundled up.

Bundled up he was, almost to the point of immobility, as he sat beside Zadok on the driver’s seat. The wagon was not one of his grandfather’s, but an odd cart with a low, boxed-in back; its purpose could not be immediately guessed. They drove perhaps four miles in the sharp air to a hamlet on a river-bank, which had a name of its own but from long custom was always called The Portage. Zadok pointed far beyond the river with his whip. “See that, Frankie? That’s Quebec. And some funny things happen on this river.”

They stopped on the river-bank at a shed, from which a fat, dark-jowled man appeared, nodded to Zadok, returned to the shed, and shortly returned carrying a box; between them he and Zadok loaded six such boxes into the back of the cart. Not a word was said, and they drove off.

“That was the happy call,” said Zadok. “Now we make the sad call.” Happy? What was happy about it? Not a word said and the fat man had what Francis thought was a bad eye, and he wished he could have made a rapid sketch of it. And now—the sad call?

They drove somewhat less than a mile to a farmhouse, where Zadok spoke briefly with a woman in black; another, older woman, also in black, was to be seen in the background. A man appeared from the barn, and helped Zadok to carry a large package out of the house; a long package, wrapped in rough brown holland; it was clearly a man. They shoved it into the back of the cart, with the boxes, Zadok said something kindly, the man nodded and spat, and the horse was turned in the direction of Blairlogie.

“Is that a dead person, Zadok? Why are we carrying a dead person?”

“Why do you suppose, Frankie? It’s Mr. Devinney’s business; I pick ‘em up, and I get ‘em ready. I drive the hearse. Mr. Devinney does the business end. He sees to putting the death notice in The Clarion, and ordering and sending out the death-cards. He marches in the procession in his plug hat. He does all the condoling, which isn’t easy work, but he has quite a poetic turn, sometimes. And of course he does all the billing, reckons up the number of plumes on the hearse, and all that. This one in the back is Old McAllister—a mean old sodbuster, but a customer now—and I’ll have to get him ready for the funeral, lug him out to the farm again, and lug him back again on Friday, for the burial. Lot o’ hauling in this business. We’re riding on the death-cart, Frankie. Didn’t you know? Aw, but then a lot o’ things are kept from a boy like you.”

When they reached Blairlogie they drove up Dalhousie Street, which was the main and only business street, and stopped at a side door of Devinney’s Furniture and Undertaking Parlours. Briskly, Zadok leaped down, opened the door of the shop, pulled out a light table on rubber wheels, shifted Old McAllister on to it, threw a sheet over him and had him into the shop in approximately fifteen seconds.

“Have to be quick. People don’t like to see how things are done. A funeral’s a work of art, y’see, dear boy, and all the rough part is no business of the public’s.”

This was as he was wheeling Old McAllister on his cart through the furniture part of the store, toward the back, which was closed off by a partition with a curtained double door. Beyond the curtains, Zadok switched on the light—it was a dim light, afforded by two bulbs of modest power—and opened another double door, very heavy and with broad hinges. From inside came a cold breath, damp and stuffy, the smell of slowly melting ice. Quickly Old McAllister was wheeled inside, and doors were closed.

“Don’t want too much melting,” said Zadok. “Mr. Devinney is always complaining about the ice bill.”

“But Zadok, what are you going to do with him?” said Francis. “Do you just leave him in there till the funeral?”

“I should say not,” said Zadok. “I make him look better than he ever looked in his life. It’s an art, Frankie, and though anybody can learn the elements of it, the real art’s inborn.—You didn’t know I was an artist, did you?”

It was then that Francis made his great confession. “Zadok, I think I’m an artist too.” He rummaged in his outer clothes, and produced his sketch-book.

“By the Powers of Old Melchizedek,” said Zadok (this was his mighty oath), “you are, dear boy, and no mistake. Here’s Miss McRory to the life. Ah, Frankie, you’ve been a bit severe with the little cap, dear man. Ah, never be cruel, me dear. But b’God it’s true enough, even if it is sharp. And here’s Miss Cameron. You’ve made her look almost like one of your Aunt’s spooky pictures. But it’s true, too. And here’s me! To think I was once accounted a handsome man! Ah, ye devil! That’s the red nose to the life! Ah, Frankie, y’ rascal! You make me laugh at myself. Oh, you’re an artist. And what are you going to do about it?”

“Zadok—Zadok, promise me you won’t tell. They’d be after me, and Aunt would want me to have lessons, and I don’t want that yet. I have to find my own way first, you see. Harry Furniss says so; find your own way, and then let anybody teach you that can, but hang on to your own way.”

“Here’s Madame Thibodeau—ah, ye little scallawag—look at the way you’ve made her great bum hang off both sides of the chair. She’d have you killed if she ever saw that!”

“But that’s it, Zadok! I’ve got to learn to see what’s in front of my nose. That’s what Harry Furniss says; most people don’t see what’s in front of their nose. They just see what they think they ought to see.”

“True enough, Frankie, and don’t I know that in my own art; you just have to encourage people to see what they think they ought to see. But come along, now. I’ve got to get you home, and the horse’ll be gettin’ cold.”

On the way back to St. Kilda, Francis pleaded to know what Zadok was going to do with Old McAllister. If it was art of any kind, hadn’t he the right of a fellow-artist to know? So at last it was clapped up between them that right after he had his supper Francis was to join Zadok again, because Aunt had to go out to a meeting at St. Bonaventura’s—something about the poor and needy—and he would see Zadok at his art, and Zadok would get him home in time to slip into his bed so that nobody, not even Miss Victoria Cameron, would suspect that he had been out.

In the barn Zadok’s first care was to unload the six boxes which remained in the death-cart, and lock them in an unused stall in the stables.

“What is that, Zadok?”

“Oh, it’s just some stuff your grandfather gets from a trusted man in Quebec. Mr. Devinney gets a little slice for the use of the cart. It’s a sideline of his business that we never discuss. Everybody has his secret, Frankie. You have yours; Mr. Devinney has his.”And as he heaved the last case into the stall, Francis thought he heard Zadok say, “And I have mine.”