Reasoning not unshrewdly, they estimated that their comments upon its fidelity to nature would be received as expert evidence. Loudly they praised the skill of the painter whenever there were ears near to which such evidence might be profitably addressed. Lem Perry, the leader of the claque, had a somewhat set speech, being uninventive in the construction of new phrases.
“Look at that two-year-old, now,” he would say, waving a cinnamon-brown hand toward the salient point of the picture. “Why, dang my hide, the critter’s alive. I can jest hear him, ‘lumpety-lump,’ a-cuttin’ away from the herd, pretendin’ he’s skeered. He’s a mean scamp, that there steer. Look at his eyes a-wallin’ and his tail a-wavin’. He’s true and nat’ral to life. He’s jest hankerin’ fur a cow pony to round him up and send him scootin’ back to the bunch. Dang my hide! jest look at that tail of his’n a-wavin’. Never knowed a steer to wave his tail any other way, dang my hide ef I did.”
Jud Shelby, while admitting the excellence of the steer, resolutely confined himself to open admiration of the landscape, to the end that the entire picture receive its meed of praise.
“That piece of range,” he declared, ‘‘is a dead ringer for Dead Hoss Valley. Same grass, same lay of the land, same old Whipperwill Creek skallyhootin’ in and out of them motts of timber. Them buzzards on the left is circlin’ round over Sam Kildrake’s old paint hoss that killed hisself over-drinkin’ on a hot day. You can’t see the hoss for that mott of ellums on the creek, but he’s thar. Any-
