"All right," said the vicar.
"Don't—please don't wait for me," said the poet.
"It's a pleasure," replied the vicar. "The day is fine and young, and it is also Monday. I am not busy."
"I really wish you wouldn't."
The vicar was a man of tact, and had known the poet since boyhood, so he bowed.
"Good day," he said, and strolled towards the parsonage.
The poet looked up and down the long, lazy street. There was no one in sight. Then he plunged into the little shop.
"Some elastic, please," he said, nervously. "Thick and square—for a catapult."