“And—and they have printed the mighty pages?” cried the old man.
“Yes,” said Dodson, “they are printing the cursed pages. I have the proofs of the first volume under my coat. The others will be through the press in a few days.”
The old man gave a cry of joy.
“Then the miracle has happened for the second time,” he said. “The Book of the Ages was cherished by the world of men.”
“Call it what you like,” said Dodson. “Call it a miracle, call it a business transaction, or call it a daylight robbery, or anything you please. I can only say that James Dodson had to scour heaven and earth to get that miserable two hundred pounds. I lied to the dealer; I drew up a false pedigree for those infernal pages of parchments; I cajoled them into believing that black was white; I proved to their satisfaction that that cursed writing in red ink was that of the Pharaohs, and was supposed to be indelible, because, do what they would with their chemicals, they could not get it to come off.”
“Oh yes, yes,” said the old man, breathing heavily. “I should have made it known to you that the writing in the Book of the Ages can never be effaced.”
“Whatever that infernal writing was,” said Dodson, “it was the cause of my not being able to get the two hundred pounds I asked for from the dealers. Do what I would, say what I would, it was only by sheer good fortune that I was able to get one. They happened to take a fancy to the clasp of that infernal volume; and as I had the presence of mind to tell them it was formerly the clasp of an ancient Roman libellus, they wrote out a cheque for one hundred pounds, less five per cent. for cash. And after that I had enormous difficulties to raise the other hundred. Talk about the labours of Hercules; what are they to the labours of one who attempts to raise a hundred pounds upon no security in this Christian country? I lied to my aunt; I put my name to an instrument that may land me in gaol; I lied to Octavius; I cheated an insurance company; and, as a consequence of all this, the great house of Crumpett and Hawker have undertaken to send out this three-volume poem for review on the twelfth of January. And let me tell you, old man, that in all the long and honourable history of that world-famous publishing house, James Dodson is the only man who has ever caused it to betray signs of what you might call undignified haste.”
“No words of mine can requite you, sir,” said the white-haired man, whose eyes welled with gratitude. “But yet the proud consciousness is yours that unborn ages will be your debtors.”
“Their monickers on a note of hand or on a three months’ bill don’t go for much at this hour of the day,” said James Dodson. “I too, like poor Luney, appear to have made the mistake of being born before my time. And it seems to me that of all the mistakes a man can commit, there is none quite so bad as that.”
However, no sooner had Jimmy Dodson come again into the presence of him who kept the little room, than all these tribulations to which he had given so free an expression in the shop, yielded immediately to that solicitude, mingled with awe, with which he had come to regard him.