“Why, the street fair.”

“Surely, you’re not going to draw it?”

“Why not?”

“It’s not representative of Montgomery.  You ought to do something representative!  What pictures have you made here?”

“I made one of those negroes driving in to market,” said my companion, “and one of the dancing cowgirls in the tent across the way—­the ones who kept us awake last night.”

“My God!” cried the secretary, turning to me.  “You intend to print such pictures and say that they represent the normal life of this city?”

“No, I won’t say anything about it.”

“But—­” the secretary arose and looked wanly at the illustrator—­“but you haven’t drawn any of our pretty homes!  You didn’t draw the golf clubs—­not either one of them!  You didn’t draw the State House, or the Confederate Monument, or the Insane Asylum, or anything!”

“I haven’t had time.”

“Well, you have time now!  I tell you what:  We’ll let this luncheon go.  I’ll take you to the top of our tallest building, and you can draw a panoramic bird’s-eye view of the entire city.  That will be worth while.”

My companion reached out, helped himself to a French roll, and put it in his pocket.

“No,” he said.  “I will not go to the top of a high building with you.”

“But why not?”

“Because,” he replied, “I am afraid you would try to push me off the roof to prevent my drawing the street fair.”

I do not remember that the secretary denied having harbored such a plan.  At all events, he countermanded the remainder of the luncheon order and departed with us.

At the entrance of an office building he made one final desperate appeal:  “Just come up to the top floor and see the view!”

But we stood firm, and he continued with us on our way.

The fair was strung along both sides of a wide, cobbled street.  It was really a very jolly fair, with the usual lot of barkers and the usual gaping crowd, plus many negroes, who stood fascinated before the highly colored canvas signs outside the tents, with their bizarre pictures of wild animals, snake charmers, “Nemo, the Malay Prince,” and “The Cigarette Fiend,” pictured as a ghastly emaciated object with a blue complexion, and billed as “Endorsed by the Anti-Cigarette League of America.”  I wished to inquire why an anti-cigarette league should indorse a cigarette fiend, but lack of time compelled us to press on, leaving the apparent paradox unsolved.

As we progressed between the tents and the booths with their catchpenny “wheels of fortune,” and ring-tossing enticements, the secretary maintained a protesting silence.

Near the end of the block we stopped to listen to a particularly vociferous barker.  I saw my companion take his pad from his pocket and place it under his arm, while he sharpened a pencil.

“Come!” cried the secretary.  “Come across the square and let me show you our beautiful bronze fountain.  Draw that!”