St. George shook his head: “We will wait a few minutes more, Todd. Tell Aunt Jemima what I say.”
Clayton, who despite the thinness of his seersucker coat, had kept his palm-leaf fan busy since he had taken his seat, and who had waited until his host's ear was again free, now broke in cheerily:
“Same old story of course, St. George. Another genius gone astray. Bad business, this bee of literature, once it gets to buzzing.” Then with a quizzical glance at the author: “Kennedy is a lamentable example of what it has done for him. He started out as a soldier, dropped into law, and now is trying to break into Congress again—and all the time writes—writes—writes. It has spoiled everything he has tried to do in life—and it will spoil everything he touches from this on—and now comes along this man Poe, who—”
“—No, he doesn't come along,” chimed in Pancoast, who so far had kept silence, his palm-leaf fan having done all the talking. “I wish he would.”
“You are right, judge,” chuckled Clayton, “and that is just my point. Here I say, comes along this man Poe and spoils my dinner. Something, I tell you, has got to be done or I shall collapse. By the way, Kennedy—didn't you send Poe a suit of clothes once in which to come to your house?”
The distinguished statesman, who had been smiling at the major's good-natured badinage, made no reply: that was a matter between the poet and himself.
“And didn't he keep everybody waiting?” persisted Clayton, “until your man found him and brought him back in your own outfit—only the shirt was four sizes too big for his bean-pole of a body. Am I right?” he laughed.
“He has often dined with me, Clayton,” replied Kennedy in his most courteous and kindly tone, ignoring the question as well as all allusion to his charity—“and never in all my experience have I ever met a more dazzling conversationalist. Start him on one of his weird tales and let him see that you are interested and in sympathy with him, and you will never forget it. He gave us parts of an unfinished story one night at my house, so tremendous in its power that every one was frozen stiff in his seat.”
Again Clayton cut in, this time to St. George. He was getting horribly hungry, as were the others. It was now twenty minutes past the dinner hour and there were still no signs of Poe, nor had any word come from him. “For mercy's sake, St. George, try the suit-of-clothes method—any suit of clothes—here—he can have mine! I'll be twice as comfortable without them.”
“He couldn't get into them,” returned St. George with a smile—“nor could he into mine, although he is half our weight; and as for our hats—they wouldn't get further down on his head than the top of his crown.”