If Will had at last met with a check to his career none would regret the fact more than these friendly and admiring rivals who had an intense admiration for his extraordinary genius. And some of them, moreover, had already come to live in a kind of reflected glory that it cast upon them.
Rumors of failure grew with the arrival of each newcomer who yet had no first-hand news to give.
“Did he let you con the piece, Martin?” asked a gray and worn veteran with a ragged beard of an individual very familiar to himself who sat at the head of the long table.
“Aye, he did so. And I tell you it is the best thing he has done yet. If he makes a failure of that, God help the age, say I.”
“He was not very happy about it two nights ago.”
“Ah, that’s Will’s way. He never does anything but that he wishes it better.”
“And yet they say he never blots a line, eh?” said a young man with flaming hair who sat opposite.
“It is only Ben who says that,” rejoined the veteran at the table-head. “And Ben blots so many himself that he thinks nobody else takes any pains by comparison.”
“Then you consider this new piece a good thing?”
“Aye, good enough, good enough. It is a better thing than any of us will ever see our names to.” The speaker sighed. He was a man of infinite courage and ambition. But he had lived long enough and had striven hard enough to learn the sharp truth that these things of themselves will not conquer. “But by God!” The fine poet and great-hearted man took up his flagon. “I’d be the last in the world to begrudge Will his good luck. His fortune is our fortune too. He is a nonesuch and not again will the world look on his like. He is a king in his own right, and by God, I drink to him. Here’s to our monarch. May God protect him, and may he never write a worse comedy than ‘As You Like It.’”