A chorus of hilarious laughter followed the reading, and then Patsy wiped her eyes and exclaimed:
"Peggy, you are not only a poet but a humorist. This is one of the best short poems I ever read."
"It's short 'cause I run out o' rhymes," admitted Peggy.
"But it's a gem, what there is of it."
"Don't, dear," remonstrated Louise; "don't poke fun at the poor man."
"Poke fun? Why, I'm going to print that poem in the Tribune, as sure as my name's Patricia Doyle! It's too good for oblivion."
"I dunno," remarked Peggy, uncertainly, "whether it's wuth fifty dollars, er about—"
"About forty-nine less," said Patsy. "A poem of that length brings about fifty cents in open market, but I'll be liberal. You shall have a whole dollar—and there it is, solid cash."
"Thank ye," returned Peggy, pocketing the silver. "It ain't what I expected, but—"
"But what, sir?"