“I am sure they do. As I went round the corner to get my lunch to-day I saw two chaps with copies of it under their arms.”
“And—and in what manner do they express themselves concerning it? Do you suppose they understand? Do you suppose these poor purblind ones accept the ampler interpretation of human destiny?”
“Of course they do, old boy—that is as well as they can. I don’t know much about literature myself, but some of the reviews that are coming out in the highest quarters are enough to make you dizzy. They—they say this—this poem of yours, old boy, is going—is going to rev-revolutionize thought and—and philosophy and—and everything else.”
“My friend,” said the dying man softly, “I would have you bring me the words of one among these poor street-persons; and the aged man, my father, shall read them to me; and then—and then I shall ask no more.”
The face of Dodson was the colour of snow. His eyes were full of despair.
“Very well, old boy,” he stammered, “I—I will bring you one of these reviews—and—and you shall hear for yourself what they think about this marvellous work of yours.”
“Bring it to-morrow evening at eight o’clock,” said the poet in a voice that could hardly be heard. “I will wait until then.”
“I will not fail,” promised his friend.
As Dodson burst out of the shop in a paroxysm of wild despair, he prayed that when he came on the morrow, this mighty spirit which contended with death should have yielded already.