I had reached the conclusion, it will be remembered,
that the extra baggage of my friend, the artist, would prove to be
pictures, or at least a picture; for I knew he had been for several
weeks in conference with Nicolino:--and now here was a box, which,
from its shape, COULD possibly contain nothing in the world but a
copy of Leonardo's "Last Supper;" and a copy of this very "Last
Supper," done by Rubini the younger, at Florence, I had known, for
some time, to be in the possession of Nicolino. This point,
therefore, I considered as sufficiently settled. I chuckled
excessively when I thought of my acumen. It was the first time I
had ever known Wyatt to keep from me any of his artistical secrets;
but here he evidently intended to steal a march upon me, and
smuggle a fine picture to New York, under my very nose; expecting
me to know nothing of the matter. I resolved to quiz him WELL, now
and hereafter.
One thing, however, annoyed me not a little. The box did NOT go
into the extra stateroom. It was deposited in Wyatt's own; and
there, too, it remained, occupying very nearly the whole of the
floor--no doubt to the exceeding discomfort of the artist and his
wife;--this the more especially as the tar or paint with which it
was lettered in sprawling capitals, emitted a strong, disagreeable,
and, to my fancy, a peculiarly disgusting odor.
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