“Yes, old boy, they know all about that,” said Jimmy Dodson; “they know all about that, and—and——”
“And—and!” said the stricken poet with an imperiousness that was regal. “Are these the words that are brought to me by one whom I love?” In a controlled excitement, that was almost stern, the stricken man raised himself in his chair. “Your arm, Jimmy,” he said, with a look of such authority that it filled the unhappy Dodson with dismay. “Lead me to the printers. I must speak to them myself.”
The poet sank back in his chair in the tender arms of his friend. The little strength that remained to him was no longer sufficient to bear his frame.
“Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “be quite calm, and sit there quietly. There is no need for you to excite yourself. I—I will go round to the printers early to-morrow and—and I—I will tell them just what you say. I will see that they hurry, although by nature, old boy, printers, as you know, are dreadfully slow.”
“So be it,” said the poet, with an expression of noble magnanimity upon his beautiful face; “do not think that I reproach you—it would break my heart.”
At these words Dodson, who, throughout his interview with the father, had remained so calm and self-secure, now turned away hastily from him who was sightless, with a half-strangled sob.
“You do not tell me in what manner Crumpett and Hawker received our little treatise,” said the poet.
Dodson found it a great matter to recover his wise self-possession, but by the time the poet had repeated the question he had regained it.
“Why—why, in what manner could they receive it, old boy?” said Jimmy Dodson. “What could they say to it? What does a religious chap say to the Bible? What does a scholar say to Homer? What does everybody say to Shakespeare?”
“It is almost more than I can realize,” said the poet, with a look of rapture that seemed to sear the veins of his unhappy friend.