Jimmy Dodson turned to the father of the poet in an incredulous aside.
“What does he mean?” he said. “He says he is happy because he is a prince of the blood.”
“Would he be of that estate if he were not happy?” said the old man, with a quietude that increased Jimmy Dodson’s dismay.
“Ye-es, I suppose not,” said Jimmy Dodson in a kind of despair. He looked from the father to the son, from the son to the father, yet in vain he sought to read the riddle of their words.
The white-haired man laid his hand on the great pile of writings which the poet held upon his knees.
“You would not doubt,” said the old man in a tone of mild expostulation, “that the creator of this was of the blood royal?”
Jimmy Dodson did not know how to dissemble his surprise. Yet even as he stood confronting the silent, but almost stern interrogations of the father and the son, he knew that an answer was necessary; and further it was borne in upon him what the nature of that answer must be.
“Oh no,” said the young man, and with an assumption of carelessness that sat upon him ungracefully, “I should not doubt it for a moment—of course not, not for a moment, because—well, because, you see, I happen to know the author. But some chaps—some chaps who don’t happen to know the author might doubt it unless they had the proof.”
“Here, O friend, is the proof of the infinite power of my right hand,” said the poet, caressing almost proudly with his frail fingers that which he had wrought. “You yourself shall examine it; and then as I know you to be worthy of trust you shall carry it to the house of Crumpett and Hawker; and you shall desire them to print it, but of course, as I say, you will not divulge the name of the author.”
“Yes, yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson faintly, “of course I will not divulge the name of the author. But suppose Crumpett and Hawker—suppose, old boy, Crumpett and Hawker take it into their heads—take it into their fat heads—you never know what publishers will do, old boy, do you?—suppose they take it into their fat heads to refuse your novel, or your poem, or your treatise, or whatever you call it?”