"Then you're the very man for me," announced George, "for I'm going to write a poem!"
"What about?"
"Oh—er—anything. Poems don't have to be about anything, do they? It's to go with a present—a birthday present, you know."
"To a girl?"
Ronald laughed long and loud. "No," he cried; "of course not! It's a little tribute of affection for the Captain! Lord, but you're green!"
"How can I help you with it if I don't know the circumstances?" demanded Forsyth. "What is the present?"
"The present isn't much—the poem is the main part of it. It's an Indian basket that Mrs. B. P. made for me in return for two fists of beads." Ronald took off his cap, felt around carefully inside of it, and at length produced a slip of paper, much worn. "I've got some of it," he said, "and I thought if I kept it on my head it might stimulate thought, but it hasn't."
"Let's hear it."
The poet cleared his throat and read proudly:
"Lovely lady, take this basket;