Clapboard, sir.

Eben. Mr. Clapboard, I want to hire this room myself. What does my son pay you?

Clap. Six dollars a week. Cheap enough.

Eben. All right. I’ll engage it for a week myself, for which I will pay you twelve.

Clap. But, sir, he has the first choice.

Eben. No, he hasn’t; he’s not of age. I am his guardian, and I want it myself; so here’s your money. At six o’clock I shall come and take possession.

Clap. But, Mr. Crotchet—

Eben. No more words are necessary. You keep a house for the entertainment of gentlemen who wish a quiet place in the country. You certainly cannot refuse so handsome an offer as I have made you.

Clap. But your son—

Eben. Has comfortable quarters at home, where he belongs. You can inform him of my appearance here, and of the bargain I have made. Tell him to go home and amuse himself; that I shall positively take up my quarters here at six o’clock. (Aside.) There’s something wrong here; “a tender attachment,” I’ll be bound; and I’m determined to find it out. (Aloud.) Good day, Mr. Claptrap. [Exit, R.

Clap. Clapboard, sir—Now here’s a nice mess! What will Mr. Horace say to this, after he has got everything comfortably arranged for his purpose, to be flustered in this manner. It’s too bad!

Enter Horace, R.

Horace. I say, Clapboard, why don’t you light up your stairs? I nearly tumbled over an old chap just now, who was going down.

Clap. Old chap, indeed! Do you know who it was?

Hor. Haven’t the least idea.

Clap. Well, sir, it was your father.

Hor. My father? Whew! Then the old gentleman has found me out!

Clap. He certainly has; but he’s laboring under a terrible mistake. Some one has sent him an anonymous note, bidding him look after you, for you had formed a tender attachment.

Hor. A tender attachment? That’s some mischief of the fellows at Jobson’s. Well, what does he propose to do?

Clap. He’s engaged this room.

Hor. Engaged this room? Why, Clapboard, it’s mine—isn’t it?

Clap. Until six o’clock. If you’ll remember, that was the time for which you took it.

Hor. But I want it a week longer.

Clap. You’re too late. He’s engaged it, and paid for it; and will be here at six o’clock to take possession.

Hor. Clapboard, you’ve played me a shabby trick!

Clap. I couldn’t help it, sir; he thrust the money into my hands; said he was your legal guardian, and told me to send you home.

Hor. I’ll not go until my work is finished. Well, Clapboard, let him come; his stay shall be short.

Clap. What will you do?

Hor. That’s a question for consideration. Six months ago my father and myself differed with regard to my choice of a profession. He wished me to be a lawyer. I determined to be a painter. He was immovable in his choice. I was stubborn and sullen in mine. By mutual consent we dropped the discussion, agreeing not to renew it for a year. I was at once filled with the desire to produce something that would induce him to agree with me, believing that if I could show that I had talent, he would let me have my way. I immediately threw myself into the society of artists, and by that means gained an inkling of the rudiments of the profession, and I found I had some talent. But how to convince my father? I hit upon the idea of attempting a painting; something remarkable—a great allegorical national picture, “The Crowning of Liberty,” a magnificent idea! To carry it out, I required a studio and