They tell of in the spheres makes all men deaf.
But straight I felt me in a lusty grip
And “What is this? Hey! Who held him concealed?
A pretty joke!” was ringing in my ears.
And now ten fists were grappling for my throttle,
Ten others made to rip my raiment from me,
And I had surely met inglorious end
Had not the clumsiest fist of all the mob
Held back to snatch the ring; for suddenly
The cry was raised—“Hallo! He is not poor!