“No,” he answered, with really appalling solemnity. “I have written my first Poem.”
“Your first What?” roars Geof.
“Poem,” admitted Haze, blushing a bit.
“My hat!” murmurs Geof. “This is so sudden! But go on, old chap. Let’s have it,—don’t mind me.”
“If you treat the matter with respect,” says Haze, suddenly on his dignity, “I’ll read it to you. Otherwise I won’t.”
“Fire ahead,” urged Geoffrey, who was simply on the qui vive to hear. “We’re as respectful as you please. We’ll listen, and then criticise.”
“No larks, mind,” warned Hazard. “According to my own ideas this is the real stuff.”
And, as we settled ourselves to attention in the flying-machine, he began, in what I can only call an “uplifted” sort of voice,—
THE YOUNG MAN AND THE WORLD.
The young man faces the stern, cold world,—