And then I enumerated some of the diffuse and unnecessary paragraphs which had weakened his cause, as well as his speech.
He was perfectly candid, though always with some reluctance. “But a man who speaks in public,” he said, “should never forget what will do for his auditors: for himself alone, it is not enough to think; but for what is fitted, and likely to be interesting to them.”
“He wants nothing,” cried I, “but a flapper.”
“Yes, and he takes flapping inimitably.”
“You, then,” I cried, “should be his flapper.”
“And sometimes,” said he, smiling, “I am.”
“O, I often see,” said I, “of what use you are to him. I see you watching him,—reminding, checking him in turn,—at least, I fancy all this as I look into the managers’ box, which is no small amusement to me,—when there is any commotion there!”
He bowed; but I never diminished from the frank unfriendliness to the cause with which I began. But I assured him I saw but too well how important and useful he was to them, even without speaking.
“Perhaps,” cried he, laughing, “more than with speaking.”
“I am not meaning to talk Of that now,” said I, “but yet, one thing I will tell you: I hear you more distinctly than any one; the rest I as often miss as catch, except when they turn this way,—a favour Which you never did me!”