He then, I regret to say, spat upon the purple whiskers of the butterfly and took refuge in flight. The long stride of Peter Quick Banta soon overtook him. Silently struggling he was haled back to the profaned temple of Art.
“Now, young feller,” said Peter Quick Banta. “Maybe you think you could do it better.” The world-old retort of the creative artist to his critic!
“Any fool could,” retorted the boy, which, in various forms, is almost as time-honored as the challenge.
Suspecting that only tactful intervention would forestall possible murder, I sauntered over from my bench. But the decorator of sidewalks had himself under control.
“Try it,” he said grimly.
The boy avidly seized the crayons extended to him.
“You want me to draw a picture? There?”
“If you don’t, I’ll break every bone in your body.”
The threat left its object quite unmoved. He pointed a crayon at Peter Quick Banta’s creation.
“What is that? A bool-rush?”