‘I do not vant to look at anypoty’s blays,’ said Darco. ‘I haf got alreaty all the tramatic iteas there ever haf been in the vorldt—all there efer will be. I do not vant notions that are olter than the hills brought to me, and then for beobles to say I haf zeen their pieces and gopied from them. I do not vant to gopy from anypoty. I am Cheorge Dargo.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Paul rashly, ‘that you haven’t met this idea yet.’
‘My tear poy,’ Darco answered, ‘if you haf cot a new way of bantling an old itea you are ferry lucky. But there are no new iteas, and you may take my vort for it. If anypoty asks who told you that, say it was Cheorge Dargo.’
‘Let me read it to you,’ Paul urged. ‘It’s hardly likely that a youngster like myself is going to have the cheek to charge you with having stolen your ideas—now, is it?’ Darco smoothed a little. ‘You could tell me if there’s anything in it, or if I’m wasting time.’
‘Go on,’ said Darco, suddenly rising from the table and hurling himself into an arm-chair, so that the floor shuddered, and the windows of the room danced in their panes.
Paul sipped his tea, opened his manuscript and began to read. He read on until a loud snore reached his ears, and then looked up discouraged.
‘Vot’s the madder?’ Darco asked. ‘Go on; I am listening.’
Paul went on and Darco snored continuously, but whenever the reader looked up at him, he was wide awake and attentive. The landlady came in to clear the table and Darco drove her from the room as if she had come to steal her own properties. Then he flung himself anew into his arm-chair and snored until the reading came to a close. It had lasted two hours and a half, and Paul at times had been affected by his own humour and pathos. He waited with his eyes on the word ‘Curtain ‘at the bottom of the final page.
‘You think that is a blay?’ said Darco. ‘Vell, it is nod a blay. It is a chelly.’
‘I don’t quite think I know what you mean,’ Paul answered, horribly crestfallen.