There was no reply, and in the silence that followed, the even breathing of John Surrey brought to the mind of the poet the well nigh incredible suspicion that his friend was asleep. This suspicion, however, he dismissed as unworthy of either of them, and he shook his comrade by the shoulder, repeating his question.
"Eh? What?" cried John. "Take your hand from my throat, villain."
"My hand is not on your throat but on your shoulder, and I misdoubt you have for some time been asleep."
"Asleep?" cried John, with honest indignation. "I was far from being asleep. When you stopped reciting I had but let my mind wander for a moment on the rough usage I had had from Conrad, who pretended he did not know me. I'll wing a shaft by his ear so close that it will make him jump a dozen yards, and for the space while he counts ten he will be uncertain whether he is in this world or the next. I called him villain, and I stick to it."
"But what call you my poems?"
"They are grand—all of them. You are getting better and better at rhyming; I swear by the bow, you are. I never heard anything to equal them."
"Indeed," replied the poet, complacently, "a man should improve with age, like good wine, if he have the right stuff in him, but though all are so good, there is surely some poem better than the rest, as in a company of men one must stand taller than his fellows. Which was it, John?"
"The last one you recited seemed to me the best," said John, scratching his head dubiously, and then not having the sense to let well enough alone, added, "the one on 'Sleep.'"
The poet rose to his feet and spoke with justifiable indignation.
"I have recited to you a score since that, you sluggard. You have indeed been asleep."