Chapter I

When Fradley came to Paris he renounced literature as a means of livelihood, for, although his success as a writer in “Brooklyn Babyhood,” had been pecuniarily satisfying, it occurred to him that painting might be less fatiguing than poetry, and he decided to adopt it as his profession.

His illustrations to his own rhymes had been, up to the present time, of archaic simplicity, and were limited to pen and ink productions representing infants afflicted with exaggerated eyes and eyelashes.

Young mothers hovered over the pages of “Brooklyn Babyhood” spelling out his rhymes to crowing infancy. In these jingles, children were told that they were “arch” and “cute,” they were assured of their importance, their every action was applauded, solid pages of baby-talk were administered, and baby-ridden Brooklyn writhed with delight.

There were some people, however, who revolted,—some who even declared that Fradley was a public nuisance and that his rhymes inculcated self-consciousness; but these people were probably unnatural parents.

When he wrote his immortal poem, “How many toes has the Baby?” the Brooklyn “Banner” published the poem in full with a portrait of and a peon to “Brooklyn’s Brilliant Son.”

This was all very well but it couldn’t last. A rival poet from Flatbush got hold of the Brooklyn “Star” and began a series of poems, the baby-talk of which made Fradley’s most earnest efforts fall flat. In vain he demanded to know the exact number of fingers and toes which the baby possessed; in vain he cooed and gurgled and bleated! The Flatbush poet was a woman, and she knew her business. When Fradley cooed, she cooed; when Fradley gurgled and bleated, she gurgled and bleated, backed up by the entire staff of the Brooklyn “Star.” In vain Fradley called for a counting of toes; she extended her researches into distant sections of baby’s anatomy, and Fradley was doomed. The last blow fell when the Flatbush poet produced

“BABY’S ICKLE TOOFY,”

which, translated freely, means “baby’s little tooth.” That settled it. Fickle Brooklyn fell down and worshipped the Flatbush lady, and Fradley sullenly packed his bag and sailed for France.

When Fradley took up his abode in the Latin Quarter, he expected that his arrival would create something of a stir. It did not. He waited a month for appreciation and finally asked Garland what he thought of his illustrations.

“I haven’t seen any,” replied Garland.

“I didn’t know you illustrated,” added Carrington, but noticing the mortification on Fradley’s face, said good-naturedly, “You know we don’t see much over here except the Paris papers; what do you illustrate for?”

Fradley was speechless.

“What paper are they in?” asked Garland, yawning innocently.

“In ‘Brooklyn Babyhood,’” snarled Fradley and left the café.

Carrington, a modest young Englishman with a high colour and blond moustache, looked troubled. Garland was irritated.

“You know,” he said to Carrington, “if he shows that sort of temper the older men will be down on him.”

“It’s very annoying,” said Carrington.

“Very. We new men have got to keep pretty quiet just now or the old men will make it hot for us. This man Fradley is enough to turn the whole studio against us. Did you make the fire this morning?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Clifford was very decent to me.”

“He’s all right, but there are some of the older men in Julian’s who are spoiling to discipline us. Did you notice it to-day?”

“I fancy I did,” replied Carrington, swallowing his beer.

“This man Fradley,” continued Garland, “is enough to queer the whole batch of this year’s men. Confound him, he’s effeminate.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Carrington pleasantly.

“Well, I do. His room is opposite mine, you know, and he’s trotting in and bothering me all the time about the decorations of his boudoir. Whew! Why, Carrington, he has tied ribbons all over his furniture, and he has tidies and things about so that you are afraid to sit down. I don’t want to misjudge the man, for we new men must hang together, but I draw the line at embroidered night shirts stuck all over with lace and ribbon.”

“So do I,” said Carrington, “does he do that sort of thing?”

“I suppose so. He brought one in to show me.”

“Maybe it wasn’t his,” suggested Carrington.

“Possibly not. It would have been more appropriate for the Queen of Sheba.”