All I demanded, as politely as possible, was "the Greek
antiquity man." The policeman knew nothing except the rules of the Museum, and
it became necessary to forage through all the houses and offices inside the
gates. An elderly gentleman called away from his lunch put an end to my search
by holding the note-paper between finger and thumb and sniffing at it
scornfully.
"What does this mean? H'mm," said he. "So far as I can ascertain it is an
attempt to write extremely corrupt Greek on the part"--here he glared at me
with intention--"of an extremely illiterate--ah--person." He read slowly from
the paper, "Pollock, Erckman, Tauchnitz, Henniker"--four names familiar to me.
"Can you tell me what the corruption is supposed to mean--the gist of the
thing?" I asked.
"'I have been--many times--overcome with weariness in this particular
employment. That is the meaning.'" He returned me the paper, and I fled
without a word of thanks, explanation, or apology.
I might have been excused for forgetting much. To me of all men had been given
the chance to write the most marvelous tale in the world, nothing less than
the story of a Greek galley-slave, as told by himself. Small wonder that his
dreaming had seemed real to Charlie.
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