However, the announcement itself seemed in some measure to reassure this very courteous black-coated gentleman, since he requested the bearer of the parcel to untie the string that he might take a glance at the manuscript. This the young man proceeded to do; and it must be said that for one whose proud boast had once been that his self-possession was invincible, his heart began to beat with a preposterous violence, as soon as Mr. Tovey came to examine the contents of the parcel.
Jimmy Dodson narrowly scrutinized Mr. Tovey’s impassive countenance as he ran his fingers through the pages of the manuscript, all stained and defaced by contact with compositors’ pencils and with printers’ thumbs.
“Rather incoherent, is it not?” said Mr. Tovey mildly, as he turned the pages over. “Is it not somewhat pagan in tone—that is, as far as there is a tone—there does not appear to be any very definite conception of Deity—and rather incoherent—rather incoherent. I am afraid this will never do.”
The last by now familiar phrase seemed to pierce the heart and brain of James Dodson.
“I—I suppose, sir,” he said with scared eyes, “you occupying a responsible position in the English Museum, you would be rather a judge of poetry?”
“I am not accustomed to make such a claim on my own behalf,” said Mr. Tovey, in whose well-regulated bosom a sympathetic chord seemed to have been touched, for at least he seemed to unbend a little and he seemed to do it very nicely, “but perhaps I am entitled to say that the Oxbridge Press paid me the compliment of inviting me to edit their Chaucer, their Spenser, their Keats, their Felicia Hemans, and their James Russell Lowell. And I have also competed for the Newdigate Prize.”
Jimmy Dodson strangled a groan. He clenched his hands in desperation.
“Well, all I can say is,” he said, breaking out with a violence which was so unexpected that it somewhat alarmed the courteous and self-possessed Mr. Tovey, “I don’t care what you’ve done or what you haven’t done; I don’t care what you think or what you don’t think, you’ve got there the manuscript of the greatest poem ever written—ab-so-lute-ly the greatest ever written, mark you—and you’ve got to have it whether you want it or not. Mind you, I know nothing about poetry myself—never cared for it—never had time to read it—but whether you believe it, or whether you don’t, I know I am speaking the truth. I promised the poor chap who wrote this poem—he has been blind for weeks and he is dying by inches—that I would carry his manuscript to the English Museum—and here it is. And now you’ve got it you had better take care of it—and just see that you do. Good-morning.”
Before the astonished Mr. Tovey could interpose a word of expostulation and remonstrance, this somewhat ill-favoured and rather vulgar person who had waxed so vehement all at once had passed from his ken; and he descended the stairs and passed out of the doors of the building with a violence of demeanour which not only scandalized the austere custodians of its portals, but caused them to reprove him as he went by.
Mr. Tovey, when at last his very natural and proper astonishment had permitted him to realize that this vulgarian had gone away, and further, that his trimly kept domain had been encumbered with a piece of brown paper and string and a thousand or so pages of foolscap all smudged and dishevelled by contact with the printers, he rang his bell.