"Bertha," he exclaimed loudly, "eightpence, please! You have sold two copies of my poems. The eightpence!"
There was a momentary silence and then the clinking of coins. The young man reappeared and made for the door with an air of determination in his face. Harvey Grimm tapped him on the shoulder.
"Sir," he said, "forgive me if I take a liberty, but am I right in presuming that you are the author of this volume?"
"I am," was the prompt reply, "and I am going to have a drink."
"One moment, if you please," his questioner begged. "This, you must remember, is an impertinent age. Modernity demands it. Are you not also hungry?"
"Ravenous," Mr. Stephen Cresswell confessed, "but what can one do with eightpence?"
"You will join my friend and myself," Harvey Grimm declared firmly. "We are going to take a chop."
The young man's tongue seemed to wander around the outside of his lips.
"A chop," he repeated absently.
"At a neighbouring grill-room," Harvey Grimm went on. "Come, I have bought two copies of your poems. I have a claim for your consideration."