“Don’t believe it,” said Birds.
“You haven’t read my article yet, so you don’t know. It’s style that makes you believe things, and I’ve put it very convincingly with quotations from Taylor’s ‘Anthropology’ and the ‘Golden Bough,’ and Legros’ Travels. No one will turn the passages up, and if they did they wouldn’t find them, because they don’t exist. But it’s all damned scientifically put.”
“Do you mean you made the whole thing up?” asked Jim.
“Yes, my child. As I say, it’s all a question of style. You’ll believe it all right. And then there’s another rather neat rag, if you’ll promise not to tell anybody.”
“Right.”
“I’ve printed a French poem by Victor Hugo, and signed it with my initials.”
“What’s the point?”
“Why, I shall take a copy very diffidently to Butler, and ask him what he thinks of my French. And I bet you five to one that he says that I had better learn prosody before I attempt to write French verse, or words to that effect. Anyone take it?”
It seemed so perfectly certain that Butler would say words to that effect that not the wildest gambler would entertain such a hazard.
“And then you’ll tell him?” asked Jim.