"Let me tell you where I've been this afternoon and how I happened to be near enough to make you take me home.

I've been to see a little old man who makes pictures of the smoke.
He has a sort of warehouse for a studio, and he lives there with his mother and his wife and their seven children, and he's gloriously happy.
I'd seen one of his pictures at an exhibition, and I wanted to see more of them, so he showed them to me.

He has almost everthing he ever painted; I don't suppose he's sold more than four or five pictures in his life.

He gives drawing-lessons to keep alive." "How do you mean he paints the smoke ?" Bibbs asked.
"Literally.

He paints from his studio window and from the street--anywhere.