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?”

I went away, wishing him a fine trip and feeling that his dreams must now soon begin to come true.  He was growing in reputation.  Some war pictures, such as he could do, would set people talking.  Then he would paint his prize pictures, finish his wreck scheme, become a baron, and be a great man.

Three weeks later I knocked at his studio door.  It was a fine springlike day, though it was in February.  I expected confidently to hear his quick aggressive step inside.  Not a sound in reply.  I knocked harder, but still received no answer.  Then I went to the other doors about.  He might be with his friends, but they were not in.  I went away thinking that his war duties had interfered, that he had not returned.

Nevertheless there was something depressing about that portion of the building in which his studio was located.  I felt as if it should not be, and decided to call again.  Monday it was the same, and Tuesday.

That same evening I was sitting in the library of the Salmagundi Club, when a well-known artist addressed me.

“You knew S——­, didn’t you?” he said.

“Yes; what of it?”

“You knew he was dead, didn’t you?”

“What!” I said.

“Yes, he died of fever, this morning.”

I looked at him without speaking for a moment.

“Too bad,” he said.  “A clever boy, Louis.  Awfully clever.  I feel sorry for his father.”

It did not take long to verify his statement.  His name was in the perfunctory death lists of the papers the next morning.  No other notice of any sort.  Only a half-dozen seemed to know that he had ever lived.

And yet it seemed to me that a great tragedy had happened—­he was so ambitious, so full of plans.  His dreams were so near fulfillment.

I saw the little grave afterward and the empty studio.  His desks revealed several inventions and many plans of useful things, but these came to nothing.  There was no one to continue the work.