When the Doctor came up, he stopped and took from his breast pocket the little green volume which contained Dale's latest poems. He held it up before the author's eyes.
"Ah, Roberts, I see you have the new work. How do you like it?"
He tried to speak easily, but the Doctor did not appear to be in a conciliatory temper.
"Are these things really yours?" he asked.
"Of course they are."
"This wretched jingo doggerel yours?"
Dale felt this unjust. The verses might not express the Doctor's views, but an immortal poet's works are not lightly to be called doggerel.
"What a narrow-minded beggar you are!" he exclaimed.
The Doctor answered nothing. Buttoning up his threadbare coat, so as to leave his arms free, with an effort he tore the leaves from their cover, rent them across, flung them on the road, and trod them into the mud. Then, without a word, he passed on his way, while Dale stood and stared at the dishonored wreck.
"He's mad—stark mad!" he declared at last. "How ill the poor chap looks, too!"