"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.