“Sure—the fellow that took the Cook’s Tour to Hell. I’ve never waded through his po’try, but we learned about him in the U.,” said Babbitt.
“Page Mr. Dannnnnty!” intoned Eddie Swanson.
“You ought to get him easy, Mr. Frink, you and he being fellow-poets,” said Louetta Swanson.
“Fellow-poets, rats! Where d’ you get that stuff?” protested Vergil Gunch. “I suppose Dante showed a lot of speed for an old-timer—not that I’ve actually read him, of course—but to come right down to hard facts, he wouldn’t stand one-two-three if he had to buckle down to practical literature and turn out a poem for the newspaper-syndicate every day, like Chum does!”
“That’s so,” from Eddie Swanson. “Those old birds could take their time. Judas Priest, I could write poetry myself if I had a whole year for it, and just wrote about that old-fashioned junk like Dante wrote about.”
Frink demanded, “Hush, now! I’ll call him.... O, Laughing Eyes, emerge forth into the, uh, the ultimates and bring hither the spirit of Dante, that we mortals may list to his words of wisdom.”
“You forgot to give um the address: 1658 Brimstone Avenue, Fiery Heights, Hell,” Gunch chuckled, but the others felt that this was irreligious. And besides—“probably it was just Chum making the knocks, but still, if there did happen to be something to all this, be exciting to talk to an old fellow belonging to—way back in early times—”
A thud. The spirit of Dante had come to the parlor of George F. Babbitt.
He was, it seemed, quite ready to answer their questions. He was “glad to be with them, this evening.”
Frink spelled out the messages by running through the alphabet till the spirit interpreter knocked at the right letter.