“You jolly humbug!” he said with genuine admiration. “And you got a pass for the Rag Bag out of me to give you a tip!”
“Will they do—these verses?”
“Rather,” still chuckling. “I’ll give you ten shillings for them—yes—I don’t mind giving you ten shillings. They’re very smart. This is your real line, you see; you’ll get on now like a house on fire.”
“Give them to me. I’ll polish them. They’re in the rough. I wrote them quickly.”
“They’ll do.”
“Give them back, I tell you,” said Fletewode irritably. “They might have been raked out of the Thames mud; but, even so, I won’t let them go like that. I’ll polish them. You shall have them to-morrow.”
Scottie handed him the verses and a ten-shilling piece. Fletewode went home to “polish” his production.
He spread the verses out before him. From his window he could see stacks of chimney pots, their crudeness of colour mellowed by the picturesqueness of dirt lit by the benign influence of May sunshine. Through the open window floated the fluty call of a caged thrush, whose cage hung over a great heap of wallflowers on the stall of a greengrocer’s shop.
Fletewode listened awhile, picked up the verses, dropped them, half raised his hands to his head, let them fall, and sat still. His limbs grew numb and heavy, then they vanished from his consciousness; all his life seemed to be focussed to one point, with a great eagerness and yearning, for what he knew not.
The room faded from his sight. Petals of wild cherry blossom, like faery cups fashioned from snowflakes, were flying through the air; the green of the beeches was like living flame; the wood was full of keen strong life. The birds were building; a wren flew by with thistledown in her beak; down by the little stream where marsh marigolds and water forget-me-nots grew, a kingfisher was flashing by; a blackbird was splashing and bathing in the shallows; over the cowslip-spangled meadow beyond, the rooks were flying, and the sheep bells’ clang blended with their sober calling.