Harvey Grimm gripped his copy of poems tightly and held it up.
"Pax!" he exclaimed. "I have one."
The poet smiled wearily. He drew his erstwhile patron a little further back into the most retired portion of the premises.
"Listen," he said, "this has been the most stupendous, the most colossal joke of the day. On the first night I sandbagged a wholesale provision merchant who admitted that he had never read my poems, and he wrote to The Times the next morning. I made myself objectionable to seven others the following night. They, too, made various complaints. After that I retired—their description of my identity was becoming embarrassing."
Mr. Harvey Grimm was a little puzzled.
"But the thing has been going on right up till last night," he declared. "The papers for days have been a source of joy to me."
"After the first few nights," the young man explained, "I was compelled to engage substitutes. I have acquaintances whose life has been spent—shall we say on the fringe of things? With their aid I made the acquaintance of various professional gentlemen from the east end, who for a suitable remuneration took up this business with avidity. They were of all sizes and they operated in all localities, choosing their victims, so far as possible, with discretion. There was but one question—'Have you read the poems of Stephen Cresswell?'—generally a bewildered negative and then biff! The people began frantically to enquire who was Stephen Cresswell, where were his poems to be obtained? People who had the slightest pretensions to literary knowledge were assailed with questions. Punch——"
"I saw Punch," Mr. Harvey Grimm interrupted. "Very clever!"
"Then the stream began," the young man continued. "I can assure you that from the opening time till dark this place is mobbed. You see, on the third night a confederate was saved from an imaginary assault by promptly producing a copy of my poems. He wrote to the paper in mock indignation but describing his escape. Then the rush began. Eleven thousand copies have been sold, some at a premium. Eleven thousand fourpences have found their way into my pocket. A morocco-bound and vellum-covered edition are waiting in the press for one thing."
"And that?"