"'Twas a poetical frenzy, Horace," explained a horsey-looking wight, winking knowingly, "most poits gets took that way when they're at it—Alton does, only 'twas his boot which me ducking—went clean through the winder."
"Pink my perishing soul!" ejaculated the languid William in sleepy horror, "so they're all at it!"
"'Od refuse me, gentlemen," said Josh, smiting plump fist on table, "we must look into this before it goes too far——"
"I'm with you, Josh," piped the shrill Horace, "a bottle at your head ain't to be took smiling—nor yet to be sneezed at, strike me pink! Besides I ain't drawed to po'try—it ain't gentleman-like, I call it damned low, gentlemen, eh?"
"Low?" repeated the solemn Josh musingly, "why no, it's hardly that, sir, there's verse, ye see, and there's poetry and t'other's very different from which—O very."
"And what's the diff, my flower?"
"Why, there's poetry, William, and there's verse, now verse is low I grant you, 'od sir, verse is as low as low, but poetry is one o' the harts, O poetry's very sooperior, a gentleman may be permitted to write poetry when so moody and I shan't quarrel with him, but—writing it for—money! Then 'tis mere verse, sir, and won't do not by no means. Verse is all right in its place, Grub Street or a attic, say, but in the gilded halls of nobility—forbid it, heaven—it won't do, sir, it ain't the thing, sir—away with it!"
"Ah, but we ain't in the gilded halls, we're in the country, sir, and the country's enough to drive a man to anything—even poetry, Josh, my tulip! Nothing to see but grass and dung hills, hedges and haystacks—O damme!"
"And a occasional dairymaid!" added Horace, laying a finger to his long nose, "Don't forget the dear, simple, rural creeters!" At this ensued much loud laughter and stamping of feet with shouts of: "A health, Horace is right! A toast to the rural beauties!"
Hereupon the Sergeant lowered the crumpled news-sheet and his scowl grew blacker than ever.