He labored at this order with the most tireless enthusiasm. Marine construction was his delight anyhow, and he spent hours and days making studies about the great vessels, getting not only the atmosphere but the mechanical detail. When he made the pictures they represented all that he felt. "You know those drawings?" he said the day after he delivered them. "Yes." "I set a good stiff price on them and demanded my drawings back when they were through." "Did you get them?" "Yep. It will give them more respect for what I'm trying to do," he said. Not long after he illustrated one of Kipling's stories. He was in high feather at this, but grim and repressed withal. One could see by the nervous movements of his wiry body that he was delighted over it. At this time Kipling came to his studio. It was by special arrangement, but S---- received him as if he were--well, as artists usually receive authors. They talked over the galley proofs, and the author went away. "It's coming my way now," he said, when he could no longer conceal his feelings. "I want to do something good on this." Through all this rise from obscurity to recognition he lived close to his friends--a crowd of them, apparently, always in his studio jesting, boxing, fencing--and interested himself in the mechanics I have described. His drawing, his engine-building, his literary studies and recreations were all mixed, jumbled, plunging him pell-mell, as it were, on to distinction. In the first six months of his studio life he had learned to fence, and often dropped his brush to put on the mask and assume the foils with one of his companions. As our friendship increased I found how many were the man's accomplishments and how wide his range of sympathies. He was an expert bicyclist, as well as a trick rider, and used a camera in a way to make an amateur envious. He could sing, having a fine tenor voice, which I heard the very day I learned that he could sing. It so happened that it was my turn to buy the theater tickets, and I invited him to come with me that especial evening. "Can't do it," he replied. "All right," I said. "I'm part of an entertainment tonight, or I would," he added apologetically. "What do you do?" I inquired. "Sing." "Get out!" I said. "So be it," he answered. "Come up this evening." To this I finally agreed, and was surprised to observe the ease with which he rendered his solo. He had an exquisitely clear and powerful voice and received a long round of applause, which he refused to acknowledge by singing again.