Likely he had boasted about his father's versatility.
Inevitably on the morning there was civic need of him at court, Kenny awoke with a fever for work, shocked at his record of indolence.

Garry found him in a painter's smock, conspicuously busy with a yard-stick and crayon.

Everything in the studio on rollers had been rearranged.
A chafing dish of coffee, sufficient to stimulate him through a day of fearful labor, stood upon a table beside a supply of cigarettes.
"Now, Kenny," said Garry, who was finding his responsibilities in Brian's absence more or less complex, "you know hanged well you have that jury thing on this morning.

I'm going with you." Kenny filled a battered tin-cup with something he had to sniff for purposes of identity, unearthed a number of brushes and defiantly polished a palette with a wad of cheesecloth.
"I'll be damned if I go!" he bristled.

"I'm too busy." Garry looked directly at him and compelled a slight faltering of his gaze.
"It's the one day I've felt like work," blustered Kenny, squaring off his canvas.