He ran out into Angel Street. The lines were singing in his head. He skipped along Angel Street, from the wire factory to Doomington Road and back again, chanting his lines. Then Harry Sewelson, his pal, came into his mind. He would make use of his unusual liberty to go and tell him about the "poetry." He ran breathlessly along Doomington Road to "Sewelson's High-Class Drapery and Hosiery Establishment." He passed through the side non-professional door along a dark lobby to the kitchen. Harry sat in a corner reading.
A sudden shame and reluctance overwhelmed Philip. What was he making all this fuss about? Harry would only laugh at him, and why shouldn't he?
"Hello!" said Harry, "come in!"
Philip came forward. "What are you reading?" he asked.
"Poetry!" Harry replied.
This put a different complexion on affairs.
"I've just done a poetry!" Philip declared proudly, throwing his scruples aside. He had established an affinity with a printed book.
"G-arn!" said Harry sceptically.
"Emmes!"
"Tell us then!"