"Say; you speak English. By heavens! you look like him. Did you ever
know a Colonel Valois, of California?" He gazes at the boy eagerly.
"I never met him, sir, but he was the last of my family. He was
killed in the Southern war."
"Look here, young man, you pack up them there paint-brushes, and
send that picture down to my rooms. You've got to dine with me
to-night, my boy. I'll give you a dinner to open your eyes."
The painter really opens his eyes in amazement.
"You knew my relative in California?"
"We dug this gold together," the stranger almost shouts, as he
taps his huge watch-chain. "We were old pardners," he says, with
a moistened eye.
There was a huskiness in the man's voice; not born of the mellow
cognac he loved.
No; Joe Woods was far away then, in the days of his sturdy youth.
He was swinging the pick once more on the bars of the American
River, and listening to its music rippling along under the giant
pines of California.
The young painter's form brought back to "Honest Joe" the unreturning
brave, the chum of his happiest days.
Armand murmurs, "Are you sure you wish this picture?"
"Dead sure, young man. You let me run this thing. Now, I won't take
'no.' You just get a carriage, and get this all down to my hotel.
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