‘Oho!’ said Ralston in his sounding bass, hoarse like the deeper notes of a reed. ‘My audience!’
‘Will you read this, sir?’
Paul offered a paper-roll. The orator made a sideway skip out of the range of the tube, as if it had held an explosive. Paul’s face fell woefully, and the great man laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Walk to the station,’ he said, and rolled downstairs, Paul after him, and in seventh heaven. ‘What have you there?’ asked Ralston, as they reached the street. ‘Prose? verse? print? manuscript?—what?’
‘It’s in type,’ said Paul. ‘It is a poem, sir.’
‘What will you bet on that?’ asked Ralston.
‘I’ll take odds, sir,’ said Paul ‘It’s never even betting.’
‘Ha!’ The orator turned and stopped and looked at him. ‘You are in my debt, young gentleman.’
‘For years past, sir.’
‘What? Eh?’