“Any fool could,” retorted the boy, which, in various forms, is almost as time-honored as the challenge.

Suspecting that only tactful intervention would forestall possible murder, I sauntered over from my bench.  But the decorator of sidewalks had himself under control.

“Try it,” he said grimly.

The boy avidly seized the crayons extended to him.

“You want me to draw a picture?  There?”

“If you don’t, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

The threat left its object quite unmoved.  He pointed a crayon at Peter
Quick Banta’s creation.

“What is that?  A bool-rush?”

“It’s a laylock; that’s what it is.”

“And the little bird that goes to light—­”

“That ain’t a bird and you know it.”  Peter Quick Banta breathed hard.  “That’s a butterfly.”

“I see.  But the lie-lawc, it drop—­so!” The gesture was inimitable.  “And the butterfly, she do not come down, plop!  She float—­so!” The grimy hands fluttered and sank.

“They do, do they?  Well, you put it down on the sidewalk.”

From that moment the outside world ceased to exist for the urchin.  He fell to with concentrated fervor, while Peter Quick Banta and I diverted the traffic.  Only once did he speak: 

“Yellow,” he said, reaching, but not looking up.

Silently the elder artist put the desired crayon in his hand.  When the last touches were done, the boy looked up at us, not boastfully, but with supreme confidence.

“There!” said he.

It was crude.  It was ill-proportioned.  The colors were raw.  The arrangements were false.

But—­the lilac bloomed. And—­the butterfly hovered.  The artist had spoken through his ordained medium and the presentment of life stood forth.  I hardly dared look at Peter Quick Banta.  But beneath his uncouth exterior there lay a great and magnanimous soul.

“Son,” said he, “you’re a wonder.  Wanta keep them crayons?”

Unable to speak for the moment, the boy took off his ragged cap in one of the most gracious gestures I have ever witnessed, raising dog-like eyes of gratitude to his benefactor.  Tactfully, Peter Quick Banta proceeded to expound for my benefit the technique of the drawing, giving the youngster time to recover before the inevitable questioning began.

“Where did you learn that?”

“Nowhere.  Had a few drawing lessons at No. 19.”

“Would you like to work for me?”

“How?”

Peter Quick Banta pointed to the sidewalk.

“That?” The boy laughed happily.  “That ain’t work.  That’s fun.”

So the partnership was begun, the boy, whose name was Julien Tennier (soon simplified into Tenney for local use), sharing Peter Quick Banta’s roomy garret.  Success, modest but unfailing, attended it from the first appearance of the junior member of the firm at Coney Island, where, as the local cognoscenti still maintain, he revolutionized the art and practice of the “sand-dabs.”  Out of the joint takings grew a bank account.  Eventually Peter Quick Banta came to me about the boy’s education.