"Ah, in America! A land of heathen savages—red-skinned hunters of men. Yes—yes! 'Twere not impossible such persons might so misapprehend my powers. 'Twould lie well within their shallow incapacities, methinks, to impute to Francis Bacon, Barrister of Gray's Inn, Member of Parliament for Melcombe, Reversionary Clerk of the Star Chamber, the friend of the Earl of Essex—to impute to me, I say, these frothings of a villain player—this Shake—eh? What?"
"Shakespeare."
"Ay."
Bacon paced placidly up and down for a few moments, while Droop followed him apologetically with his eyes. Evidently this was a most important personage. It behooved him to conciliate such a power as this. Who could tell! Perhaps this friend of the Earl of Essex might be the capitalist for whom he was in search.
For some time Master Bacon paced back and forth in silence, evidently wrapped in his own thoughts. In the meantime Droop's hopes rose higher and higher, and at length he could no longer contain himself.
"Why, Master Bacon," he said, "I'm clean surprised—yea, marry, am I—that anybody could hev ben sech a fool—a—eh? Well, a loon—what?—as to hev said you wrote Shakespeare. You're a man o' science—that's what you are. You don't concern yourself with no trumpery poetry. I can see that stickin' out."
Bacon was startled and examined himself hurriedly.
"What!" he exclaimed, "what is sticking out, friend?"
"Oh, I was jest sayin' it in the sense of the word!" said Droop, apologetically. "What I mean is, it's clear that you're not a triflin' poet, but a man of science—eh?"
"Why, no. I do claim some capacity in the diviner flights of lyric letters, friend. You are not to despise poetry. Nay—rather contemn those who bring scorn to the name of poet—vain writers for filthy pence—fellows like this same Shakespeare."