"You don't mind, do you?" he asked anxiously.
"No, no, of course not, dear boy," said the poet with an effort. "That is—you—you won't hit anything, will you?"
"Rather," cried Tommy. "You jolly well see if I don't."
Delicia's successor looked up from her saucer on the rug, and the "Morning Post" slipped from the poet's nerveless grasp.
"You—oh Tommy, you will spare the tabby," he gasped tragically, indicating the rug and its occupant.
Tommy grinned.
"All right," he said,—adding as a comforting afterthought, "And cats are awful poor sport, you know—they're so jolly slow."
But the poet was far away.
With every meal Mrs. Chundle brought a pencil and paper, for as likely as not inspiration would not scorn to come with coffee or hover over a rasher of bacon. And it was even so, at this present.