He painted not one, but four, pictures, and sent them all.  They were very interesting after their kind.  Two were scenes from the great railroad terminal yards; the others, landscapes in mist or rain.  Three of these pictures were passed and two of them hung on the line.  The third was skyed, but he was admitted to membership.

I was delighted for his sake, for I could see, when he gave me the intelligence, that it was a matter which had keyed up his whole nervous system.

Not long after this we were walking on Broadway, one drizzly autumn evening, on our way to the theater.  Life, ambition, and our future were the small subjects under discussion.  The street, as usual, was crowded.  On every hand blazed the fire signs.  The yellow lights were beautifully reflected in the wet sidewalks and gray wet cobblestones glistening with water.

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.”