Black Hearts in Battersea Read Online Free PDF

with awe and apprehension. If Dr. Furrneaux was so severe with a familiar pupil, grandson of an old friend, what was his own reception likely to be?
    The only person who thoroughly enjoyed the scene was the kitten, who darted out and chased the fluttering scraps of paper around Dr. Furneaux's feet. The sight of him
appeared to calm the fiery little principal. He stopped hissing and stamping, stared at the kitten, snapped his fingers, took several deep breaths, and walked briskly two or three times up and down the room, neatly avoiding all the obstacles. At last he said, "I have been too harsh. I do not mean to alarm you, my dear boy. No, no, I hope I treat my best friend's grandson better zan zat. But zere must, zere
must
be a painter hidden in ze grandson of Marius Rivière. We shall wr-rrench him out,
n'est-ce-pas?
Now—you shall draw somesing simple—"

    His eye roamed about the room and lit on the kitten. "You shall draw zat cat! Of the most simple, no? Here—" He swept everything, plates, bread, papers, and ink off his desk in disorder, found a stack of clean paper, and beckoned to Justin. "Here, my dear boy. Here is charcoal, here is crayon.
Now—draw!
I shall return in two hours' time. Come, my dear Mr. Buckle, Justin will be easier if we leave him alone."
    He took the arm of Mr. Buckle, who moved reluctantly toward the door.
    "Who is that?" he asked sourly, pointing to the legs of Simon, who was lying on his stomach behind the Arabian Nights jar, drawing cobblestones.
    "Zat?" Dr. Furrneaux shrugged. "Nobody. A boy from nowhere. He will not disturb Justin—his mind is engr-rossed in drawing."
    The door closed behind them.
    Simon felt sorry for Justin—it seemed unreasonable to expect the boy to be a painter just because his grandfather
had been one and founded the Academy. People, surely did not always take after their grandfathers? Perhaps I'm lucky, Simon thought for the first time, not to know who my parents or grandparents were.

    After working diligently for another half hour he stood up and stretched, to rest his cramped muscles. The kitten greeted him with a loud squeak of pleasure and ran up his leg. But the boy Justin took no notice—he was sitting at the desk, slumped forward with his face in his hands, the picture of dejection. He had not even started to draw.
    "I say, cheer up," Simon said sympathetically. "It can't be as bad as that, surely?"
    Justin hunched one shoulder away from him.
    "Oh,
you're
all right," he said with the rudeness of misery. "Nobody cares how
you
draw. But just because my grandfather was a painter and started this place, everyone expects me to be wonderful. Why should I learn to paint? I'm going to be a duke. Dukes don't paint."
    "I say, are you though?" Simon said with interest. "I've never met a duke."
    "And I daresay you never will," Justin said listlessly. Just at that moment the kitten climbed across from Simon's leg to the desk and began playing with a ball of charcoal eraser. Justin made a rather hopeless attempt at sketching it, but it would not oblige him by staying still, and, after jabbing a few crude scrawls, he exclaimed furiously, "Oh, curse and confound the little brute!" and hurled the charcoal across the room. The kitten sat down at once and stared at him with large reproving eyes.
    "Quick, now's your chance while he's still," Simon urged encouragingly. "Try again."

    "I can't draw live things!" snapped Justin. "A kitten hasn't any shape, it's all fuzzy!" He angrily scribbled a matchstick cat—four legs, two ears, and a tail—then rubbed it out with his fist and drew the same fist over his eyes, leaving a damp, charcoaly smear on his cheek.
    "No," said Simon patiently, "
look
at the kitten, look at its shape and then draw that—never mind if what you draw doesn't look like a cat. Here—" He picked up another bit of charcoal and, without taking the tip off the paper, quickly drew an outline—quite carelessly, it seemed, but Justin gasped as the shape of