“Bad poets.”
“And what did the poets do?”
“One sold bootlaces for a living.”
“And does he yet live?”
“No, he died.”
“Who got the bootlaces?”
“The policeman got the bootlaces.”
“Who gave him—a button-hook?” asked Shan’t, remembering that Uncle Marcus could not lace or unlace his boots without one.
“What a strange thing,” said Mr. Watkins. “Out of the mouth of babes and—and yet—why strange? Strange that it should be true that out of the—”
“Aren’t we getting in a bit deep?” asked Mr. Pease, who felt that the poet was trespassing on his ground. Poets in general he handed over to Watkins to play with as he liked, but the Bible—and as a future bishop—button-hooks—well, after all, they were his province.