What was I going to say?"
"Something about the galley."
"I remember now. It's 25 per cent. of the profits, isn't it?"
"It's anything you like when I've done the tale."
"I wanted to be sure of that. I must go now. I've, I've an
appointment." And he left me.
Had my eyes not been held I might have know that that broken
muttering over the fire was the swan-song of Charlie Mears. But I
thought it the prelude to fuller revelation. At last and at last I
should cheat the Lords of Life and Death!
When next Charlie came to me I received him with rapture. He
was nervous and embarrassed, but his eyes were very full of light,
and his lips a little parted.
"I've done a poem," he said; and then quickly: "it's the best I've
ever done. Read it." He thrust it into my hand and retreated to the
window.
I groaned inwardly. It would be the work of half an hour to
criticise--that is to say praise--the poem sufficiently to please
Charlie. Then I had good reason to groan, for Charlie, discarding
his favorite centipede metres, had launched into shorter and
choppier verse, and verse with a motive at the back of it.
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