“Boy, this is fine!  Fine!  That duel will be fought, take my word for it.  But, look here, we must toast this first attempt!  Madame!  Madame!” He literally shouted the words, and madame came flying out.

“Madame, have you a liqueur brandy—­very old?  I have discovered that this is a fete day.”

“But certainly, monsieur!  A cognac of the finest excellence.”

“Out with it, then!  And bring two glasses—­no, bring three glasses!  You must drink a toast with us!”

Madame bustled off, laughing and excited, and again the Irishman gripped the boy’s shoulder.

“You’ve taken me in!” he cried.  “Absolutely and entirely taken me in!  I thought you a slip of a boy with a head full of notions, and what do I find but that it’s a little genius I’ve got!  A genius, upon my word!  And here comes the blessed liquor!”

His whole-hearted enthusiasm was like fire, it leaped from one to the other of his companions.  As madame came back, gasping in her haste, he ran to meet her, and, seizing the brandy and the glasses, drew her with him to the table.

“Madame, you are a Frenchwoman—­therefore an artist.  Tell me what you think of this!”

In his excitement he spoke in English, but madame understood his actions if not his words.  Full of curiosity she bent over the boy’s shoulder, peered into the sketch, then threw up her hands in genuine admiration.

’Ah, but he was an artist, was monsieur!  A true artist!  It was delicious—­ravishing!’ She turned from one of her customers to the other.  ’If monsieur would but put his name to this picture she would never again have the table washed; and in time to come, when he had made his big success—­’

“Good, madame!  Good!  When he has made his big success he will come back here and laugh and cry over this, and say, ’God be with the youth of us!’ as we say in my old country.  Come, boy, put your name to it!”

[Illustration:  “WHY, BOY, THIS IS CLEVER—­CLEVER—­CLEVER!”]

The boy glanced up at him.  His face was aglow, there were tears of emotion in his eyes.

“I can say nothing,” he cried, “but that I—­I have never been so happy in my life.”  And, bending over his sketch, he wrote across the marble-topped table a single word—­the word ‘Max.’

The Frenchwoman bent over his shoulder.  “Max!” she murmured.  “A pretty name!”

The Irishman looked as well.  “Max!  So that’s what they call you?  Max!  Well, let’s drink to it!” He filled the three glasses and raised his own.

“To the name of Max!” he said.  “May it be known from here to the back of God’s speed!” He swallowed the brandy and laid down his glass.

“To M. Max!” The Frenchwoman smiled.  “A great future, monsieur!” She sipped and bowed.

Of the three, the boy alone sat motionless.  His heart felt strangely full, the tears in his eyes were dangerously near to falling.