Jingo Django by Sid Fleischman Read Free Book Online

leather.
    â€œDoes this black calfskin take your fancy, Jango?”
    â€œNo, sir,” I answered. I’d feel too infernal dressed up. “But I do like that buckskin.”
    â€œThen buckskin it is, Mr. Pratt. And kindly allow growing room in the toes.”
    The cobbler nodded. “I’ll have boots on the lad’s feet tomorrow.”
    â€œCapital,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said, and returned to his hot flip.
    We were sitting down to supper when the stable boy began packing in the faceless paintings. It didn’t surprise me that they caused a stir. I filled my mouth as quickly as I could before we got booted out. Mr. Foxhall would be sure to see that he had taken in some barmy variety of traveler.
    But Mrs. Foxhall’s eyes lit up and the serving girls joined her in a cluster around the paintings. Everyone began to babble. I kept stuffing my mouth.
    â€œHave you ever seen such lovely dresses?” I heard the innkeeper’s wife sigh. “And look at that lace collar! Why, it appears positively real!”
    Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones continued eating at a leisurely pace. “Excellent venison, sir,” he commented to Mr. Foxhall. But the landlord had turned to join his wife. The pictures drew people from every corner of the inn and they buzzed from one to the other like flies.
    I wondered if they had all gone blind! Didn’t they notice there wasn’t a face to be found on any of the paintings? Why the fuss over dresses and lace collars?
    The next thing I knew the innkeeper had stationed himself beside us. “You are indeed an artiste extraordinaire, sir. Pictures without faces! Is that the latest fashion in Boston?”
    â€œThe boiled potatoes are splendid,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones replied.
    â€œMy dear sir —”
    We were in for a snarl now, I thought. But Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones rose from the table, ignoring the innkeeper, and strode toward the chattering women.
    â€œMadam,” he said to Mrs. Foxhall. “Will you kindly select the painting of your choice.”
    â€œOh, the one with the yellow dress, Mr. Jones. Is it from Paris?”
    He lifted the frame and propped it across the arms of a chair. He brought an oil lamp closer, seated her opposite him, opened his paint box and set to work.
    He began painting in red hair and snapping bright eyes and busied himself with the exact little smile that played about our landlady’s lips. I had never seen anything so wondrous fast and clever.
    Perhaps an hour had passed when the innkeeper declared, “My dear Maggie, it’s become the very image of you!”
    Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones kept daubing away in a burnt hurry. Finally he spoke with a brush clamped between his teeth. “Do you have a favorite brooch, Mrs. Foxhall?”
    â€œI’ll fetch your cameo,” said the innkeeper. But then he stopped short. “Mr. Jones, I do hope your fee is not beyond our reach.”
    â€œThere will be no fee, sir.”
    He was daft, I thought! We hadn’t so much as a penny with a hole in it and he was going to make a gift of the picture.
    â€œWell, sir,” answered the innkeeper, his face aglow. “You’re no businessman — I can see that. You’re welcome to the Red Jacket as long as you care to favor us with your society. If you think you can best me in a contest of generosity you’re mistaken.” And off he went to fetch the brooch.
    At least we would be eating, I thought. And the landlord wouldn’t be putting the law on us. I couldn’t help admiring Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones’ lofty confidence. Perhaps he wasn’t so much a lunatic as an odd stick.
    I watched him brush in a cameo at Mrs. Foxhall’s neck, and the portrait was finished. The faceless painting now had a face. The innkeeper immediately hung it on the wall, and everyone stood back to gaze at it. By that time I was so tired and sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open.