He misconstrued both into respect for the present
soul of Charlie Mears, to whom life was as new as it was to Adam, and interest
in his readings; and stretched my patience to breaking point by reciting
poetry--not his own now, but that of others. I wished every English poet
blotted out of the memory of mankind. I blasphemed the mightiest names of song
because they had drawn Charlie from the path of direct narrative, and would,
later, spur him to imitate them; but I choked down my impatience until the
first flood of enthusiasm should have spent itself and the boy returned to his
dreams.
"What's the use of my telling you what I think, when these chaps wrote things
for the angels to read?" he growled, one evening. "Why don't you write
something like theirs?"
"I don't think you're treating me quite fairly," I said, speaking under strong
restraint.
"I've given you the story," he said, shortly replunging into "Lara."
"But I want the details."
"The things I make up about that damned ship that you call a galley? They're
quite easy. You can just make 'em up yourself. Turn up the gas a little, I
want to go on reading."
I could have broken the gas globe over his head for his amazing stupidity. I
could indeed make up things for myself did I only know what Charlie did not
know that he knew.
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