CHAPTER V
STRANGE EXPERIENCES OF AN ARTIST'S MODEL
I SAY, old thing!"
Archie spoke plaintively. Already he was looking back ruefully to the time when he had supposed that an artist's model had a soft job. In the first five minutes muscles which he had not been aware that he possessed had started to ache like neglected teeth. His respect for the toughness and durability of artists' models was now solid. How they acquired the stamina to go through this sort of thing all day and then bound off to Bohemian revels at night was more than he could understand.
"Don't wobble, confound you!" snorted Mr. Wheeler.
"Yes, but, my dear old artist," said Archie, "what you don't seem to grasp—what you appear not to realise—is that I'm getting a crick in the back."
"You weakling! You miserable, invertebrate worm. Move an inch and I'll murder you, and come and dance on your grave every Wednesday and Saturday. I'm just getting it."
"It's in the spine that it seems to catch me principally."
"Be a man, you faint-hearted string-bean!" urged J. B. Wheeler. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, a girl who was posing for me last week stood for a solid hour on one leg, holding a tennis racket over her head and smiling brightly withal."
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