When we reached Greeley Square (at that time a brilliant and almost sputtering spectacle of light and merriment), S---- took me by the arm. "Come over here," he said. "I want you to look at it from here." He took me to a point where, by the intersection of the lines of the converging streets, one could not only see Greeley Square but a large part of Herald Square, with its then huge theatrical sign of fire and its measure of store lights and lamps of vehicles. It was a kaleidoscopic and inspiring scene. The broad, converging walks were alive with people. A perfect jam of vehicles marked the spot where the horse and cable cars intersected. Overhead was the elevated station, its lights augmented every few minutes by long trains of brightly lighted cars filled with changing metropolitan crowds--crowds like shadows moving in a dream. "Do you see the quality of that? Look at the blend of the lights and shadows in there under the L." I looked and gazed in silent admiration. "See, right here before us--that pool of water there--do you get that? Now, that isn't silver-colored, as it's usually represented. It's a prism. Don't you see the hundred points of light?" I acknowledged the variety of color, which I had scarcely observed before. "You may think one would skip that in viewing a great scene, but the artist mustn't. He must get all, whether you notice it or not. It gives feeling, even when you don't see it." I acknowledged the value of this ideal. "It's a great spectacle," he said. "It's got more flesh and blood in it than people usually think. It's easy to make it too mechanical and commonplace." "Why don't you paint it?" I asked. He turned on me as if he had been waiting for the suggestion. "That's something I want to tell you," he said. "I am. I've sketched it a half-dozen times already. I haven't got it yet. But I'm going to." I heard more of these dreams, intensifying all the while, until the Spanish-American war broke out. Then he was off in a great rush of war work. I scarcely saw him for six weeks, owing to some travels of my own, but I saw his name. One day in Broadway I stopped to see why a large crowd was gathered about a window in the Hoffman House. It was one of S----'s drawings of our harbor defenses, done as if the artist had been sitting at the bottom of the sea. The fishes, the green water, the hull of a massive war-ship--all were there--and about, the grim torpedoes. This put it into my head to go and see him. He was as tense and strenuous as ever. The glittering treasure at the end of the rainbow was more than ever in his eye. His body was almost sore from traveling. "I am in now," he said, referring to the war movement. "I am going to Tampa." "Be gone long?" I asked. "Not this first time. I'll only be down there three weeks." "I'll see you then." "Supposing we make it certain," he said. "What do you say to dining together this coming Sunday three weeks?"