One Sunday afternoon in 1917 there came strolling up the driveway to the Borglum home in Stamford a stranger somewhat noticeably costumed. As he alighted from his cab and started a leisurely march to the terrace the Borglums were conscious of a broadly checked suit, a flaming tie, a monocle and a bright-yellow cane. The man’s face may have shown a hint of Irish, but otherwise he was unmistakably British and impressively advertising it. At the door he introduced himself as William A. Gavin of London. “But I have come originally from old Ireland,” he mentioned. “I was taught to love the arts at my mother’s knee. I have never forgotten the precepts she laid down for me.... ‘A great artist,’ she always said, ‘must live very close to God.’ And I have come here, sir, as a humble pilgrim. I have seen some of your magnificent work and I stand in great awe of it. I should esteem it a great privilege, Mr. Borglum, if I could go home and tell some of my friends that I have had the chance to shake your hand....” Mr. Borglum invited him in. Whatever else Mr. Gavin may have been, he was a finished worker. He has been described by some of those who knew him best as a somewhat small, round, dapper gentleman with an amiable manner who was stiff enough to be nearly pompous. But he knew how to take his time. In due course he mentioned what had given him his interest [Illustration: LINCOLN AND GUTZON BORGLUM IN HOIST] [Illustration: PLASTER MODEL IN MOUNTAIN STUDIO G.B. has his hand on T.R.’s nose. Lincoln Borglum is at left] in sculpture. “I have learned,” he said, “what the human body looks like in motion. I know there must be strange techniques in the art that permits the transfer of this motion to blocks of stone or metal. I can sense it. I can see it although I cannot comprehend it. I have been able to recognize master productions. I have never failed to see that they were master productions--and I may say that so far I have never seen any that move me the way that yours do.” “And you are not an artist?” inquired Mr. Borglum. Mr. Gavin sighed. “Ah, no,” he said. “I wished to be. As a child I haunted the art galleries. But there were financial difficulties in the family and I was discouraged. I have given much of my life to sports.” “Interesting,” murmured the sculptor. “Yes, indeed,” returned Mr. Gavin. “In a way it has been an odd path--and not one, perhaps, that I should have chosen if I had been given the selection. But I feel that I have done a worthwhile thing. The strength of the nation may be said to depend upon its horses, rifle shots, swimmers, tennis champions, boxers, and, of course, cricket players. I have tried to make these people constantly better--and, in my small way, I have succeeded.” “I like boxing,” admitted the sculptor.