ROYCE. Why, where do they go to?
OLIVER. The United States, mostly. Everybody who’s let in here makes for the table sooner or later and pinches one of the pens. “Lands’ sake, what a head,” they say, waving at the picture with their right hand and feeling behind their back with the left; it’s wonderful to see ’em. Tim, my sister—Tim and I glued a pen on to the tray once when one of ’em was coming, and watched him clawing at it for about five minutes, and babbling about the picture the whole time. I should think he knew what the poet Blayds looked like by the time he got the pen into his pocket.
ROYCE (going back to the picture). Well, it’s a wonderful head.
OLIVER. Yes, I will say that for the old boy, he does look like somebody.
ROYCE. When was this done?
[184]OLIVER. Oh, about eighteen years ago.
ROYCE. Yes. That was about when I met him.
OLIVER. You never told me you’d met him. Did you meet me by any chance?
ROYCE. No.
OLIVER. I was five then, and people who came to see Blayds the poet patted the head of Blayds the poet’s grandson and said: “Are you going to be a poet too, my little man, when you grow up?”