'Ten thousand dollars.'
Adding, after a considerable pause—
'Ten thousand. It is a heap of money.'
Presently the poet inquired—
'Are you going to send it to him right away?'
'Yes,' I said. 'It is a queer question.'
No reply. After a little, Rogers asked, hesitatingly:
'All of it?—That is—I mean—'
'Certainly, all of it.'
I was going to say more, but stopped—was stopped by a train of thought which started up in me. Thompson spoke, but my mind was absent, and I did not catch what he said. But I heard Rogers answer—