“Ah, friend,” said the dying poet, “so here are the printed pages at last.”
“Yes, old boy, here they are at last,” said Jimmy Dodson.
“Give them to me,” said the poet, extending his left hand, which he could scarcely raise.
Dodson placed a few of the printed sheets upon the extended palm, which shook like gossamer; and as the poet, with a look of composed passion, held them up before his sightless eyes, it seemed almost that those dead orbs were again endowed with life.
“The paper is good,” said the poet, rubbing the pages against his cheek in order that he might know its quality. “I hope the printing is clear.”
“Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “a brand new fount, beautifully clear.”
“Liberal margins, such as are beloved of the gentle reader?”
“Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “beautiful wide margins. It will make a fine page.”
“And they are printing the poem in three volumes?” asked the poet, “with a new phase in each; and also they are omitting the name of the author from the title page?”
“Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “they are doing all that. All your instructions are being carried out to the letter. By the way, would you like a frontispiece in the first volume of the Wayfarer communing for the first time with Earth, his Mother? I could get a chap I know to draw it; last year he had a picture accepted at the Academy; and Octavius would raise no objection.”