“The Book of the Ages!” said the old man hoarsely; “the Book of the Ages!”
“Yes,” said Dodson indifferently, “the Book of the Ages—rather a good name for it. If that vellum is as old as I think it is, and that red scrawl is nicely got off, and the edges are trimmed, and the surface is cleaned up a bit, there may be money in it. People do buy such rum things now-a-days by way of curios, and they don’t seem to mind paying fancy prices for them either.”
“The Book of the Ages!” the old man repeated. In his peering eyes were a horror and a consternation that were truly dreadful, yet they were totally unnoticed by his visitor.
“Of course, you know,” Dodson continued, pursuing this new idea, which, remote as it was, seemed to afford the only prospect of obtaining two hundred pounds, “I shall have to pitch a tale about it to the dealers. I must fix up some sort of a history, you know, about its being found in the tomb of the Pharaohs, or its being the very identical sheepskin upon which the Scriptures were written. But you must leave that to me. I shall go round and see Temple and Ward to-morrow, and you can lay to it, old man, that I shall have thought of something by then. But, in the meantime, if you really do believe that miracles happen—I wish I could believe it myself—you had better think about it, old man, as much as you possibly can, for I’ve read somewhere that when you do want a thing to happen, it is a good plan to keep your mind on it all the time.”
Before the old man could consent to a suggestion which he did not know how to derive the power to sanction, the voice of him who sat in the little room was heard to summon James Dodson.
“Why don’t you come to me?” said the voice from within. “I can hear the voice of my friend. Why don’t you come to me with the printed sheets?”
In some trepidation Dodson obeyed a summons, which sounded almost imperious upon the lips of him from whom it proceeded.
“The printed sheets,” said the dying poet, stretching out his hands. “Please place the printed sheets into my hands. I would have my father read what is printed there, because this little treatise must go forth without fault or sully.”
“They have not started to print it yet, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson dismally.
“Why—why is that?” cried the dying poet, with a consternation that was almost petulant. “Do they not know that a term has been placed to my days, that the sands of life are running out in the glass?”