"For the sake of common sense, Halliday," said Davis, turning to his companion, "don't sit there like a clam; open up and say something to convince this Don Quixote who, because he himself, sees only windmills, cannot be persuaded that we have real dragons to fight."
"Do you fellows know Henley?" asked Halliday, with apparent irrelevance.
"I know him as a critic," said McLean.
"I know him as a name," echoed the worldly Davis, "but—"
"I mean his poems," resumed Halliday, "he is the most virile of the present-day poets. Kipling is virile, but he gives you the man in hot blood with the brute in him to the fore; but the strong masculinity of Henley is essentially intellectual. It is the mind that is conquering always."
"Well, now that you have settled the relative place in English letters of Kipling and Henley, might I be allowed humbly to ask what in the name of all that is good has that to do with the question before the house?"
"I don't know your man's poetry," said McLean, "but I do believe that I can see what you are driving at."
"Wonderful perspicacity, oh, youth!"
"If Webb will agree not to run, I'll spring on you the poem that seems to me to strike the keynote of the matter in hand."
"Oh, well, curiosity will keep me. I want to get your position, and I want to see McLean annihilated."