The Armory Show closed on the eve of St. Patrick's Day, 1913. "It was the wildest, maddest, most intensely excited crowd . . . I have witnessed," wrote Jerome Myers. It was the biggest crowd of all, too. From dusty subway-riders to the cream of society, all came, as though to say farewell to a friend. Reporters elbowed through the throngs, and suddenly the Fighting Irish band burst into a Sousa march. It was late at night when the last visitors straggled out. The band was beckoned down from the balcony, and the artists and their girls, as if in Montmartre, fell in behind, marching from room to room. Then outdoors to the pavements, a carnival let loose on gray Lexington Avenue. Back in again--and from behind Bellows's burlap walls came champagne. Corks popped and the band went into a waltz. As the couples whirled around the floor, deliriously gay, toasts were offered and drunk amid cheers.
"To the Academy!" shouted an artist derisively.
John Quinn smiled. "No, no," he said. "Don't you remember Captain John Philip of the Texas? When his guns sank a Spanish ship at Santiago, he said: 'Don't cheer, boys, the poor devils are dying.'"
All through the night the band played without pay. The Irish regiment, from Colonel Conley down to the last private, was vastly impressed by the success of the show. Not to mention John Quinn, special ornament of the Sons of Erin. Stuart Davis, at least, was not particularly surprised at this. He had previously, as a joke, taken his favorite Irish bartender from Newark to see the famous Nude on her staircase. Completely oblivious of the laughter all around, the Irishman took his time. He studied the picture carefully from every angle, and then said to all who cared to listen: "Paint like