"Me—Well, you hear of him now, and the whole thing comes down to this: Mr. Spondy will call at your office with a couple of bales of his stuff at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, and you might have something besides a pink rejection slip dripping with regrets ready for him. I don't know what his rates are, but his stuff runs about ninety pounds to the bale, and what that comes to at fifty per you can figure out for yourself.
"Editor—How does Champ Clark stand on this thing?
"Me—He and Tommie Marshall are with us to the last tintinnabulation of the gong.
"Editor—Then I am to understand just what, Mr. President?
"Me—That you don't go to England on our account until we are absolutely assured beyond peradvanture that there will be no deterioration in the quality of Hyperion poetry during your absence.
"Editor—All right. Send the guy around this afternoon. He can send the bale by slow freight. We always pay in advance anyhow."
The Idiot paused to take breath.
"Then what?" asked the Poet dubiously.
"You go around and get what's coming to you," said the Idiot. "Or perhaps it would be better to send a messenger boy for it. The more impersonal we make this business the better."
"I see," said the Poet dejectedly. "But even at that, Mr. Idiot, when the Hyperion man doesn't get the Ambassadorship, won't he sue me to recover?"