Charlie ceased speaking, and I said no
word.
"By Jove!" he said, at last, shaking his head. "I've been staring at the fire
till I'm dizzy. 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 known 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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