“And ‘damask earth’?” said Bedford.
“Easy,” cried Huddy. “Even I can understand that. Did you never hear, Beddy, of painting a town red? That’s damask earth in a small way. If you can paint a town red with your limited resources, what couldn’t a god do with a godlike credit? As I understand the poem, old Sarcophagus comes down out of the cerulean fire, and goes in for a little damask earth. That’s why the poet later says:
“‘Canst listen to a prayer, Sarcophagus?
Indeed O art thou there, Sarcophagus?’
He wanted to pray to him, but didn’t know if he’d got back from damask earth yet.”
“You’re a perfect wonder, Huddy,” said Billy Jones. “As a thought-detector you are a beauty. I believe you’d succeed if you opened up a literary bureau somewhere and devoted your time to explaining Browning and Meredith and others to a mystified public.”
“’Tis an excellent idea,” said Tom Snobbe. “I’d really rejoice to see certain modern British masterpieces translated into English, and, with headquarters in Boston, the institution ought to flourish. Do worms honk?”
MR. BILLY JONES