“But what?—what?—how was it?”
“Sir”—cried I, not well understanding him.
“How came you—how happened it—what?—what?”
“I—I only wrote, Sir, for my own amusement,—only in some odd, idle hours.”
“But your publishing—your printing,—how was that?
“That was only, sir,—only because—”
I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long story, and growing terribly confused at these questions;—besides,—to say the truth, his own “what? what?” so reminded me of those vile “Probationary Odes,” that, in the midst of all my flutter, I was really hardly able to keep my countenance.
The What! was then repeated, with so earnest a look, that, forced to say something, I stammeringly answered—
“I thought-sir-it would look very well in print!”
I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever made! I am quite provoked with myself for it; but a fear of laughing made me eager to utter anything, and by no means conscious, till I had spoken, of what I was saying. He laughed very heartily himself,—well he might—and walked away to enjoy it, crying out,