"I wonder who the deuce the chap could have been?" murmured the other diners. "Has any London author with a residence on the Isle of Man ever shown any acquaintance with gloom?" "I don't know for sure," said Billy Jones. "But my impression is that it must be the editor of _Punch_. What I am uncertain about is his residence on the Isle of Man. Otherwise I think he fills the bill." VII THE DREAMERS DISCUSS A MAGAZINE POEM The pathetic tale of the Gloomster having been told and discussed, it turned out that Haarlem Bridge was the holder of the next ball in the sequence, the eighth. Haarley had been looking rather nervous all the evening, and two or three times he manifested some desire to withdraw from the scene. By order of the chairman, however, the precaution had been taken to lock all the doors, so that none of the Dreamers should escape, and, consequently, when the evil hour arrived, Haarley was perforce on hand. He rose up reluctantly, and, taking a single page of manuscript from his pocket, after a few preliminary remarks that were no more nor less coherent than the average after-dinner speech, read the following lines, which he termed a magazine poem: [Illustration: "'O ARGENT-BROWED SARCOPHAGUS'"] "O argent-browed Sarcophagus, That looms so through the ethered trees, Why dost thou seem to those of us Who drink the poisoned chalice on our knees So distant and so empyrean, So dour yet full of mystery? Hast thou the oracle as yet unseen To guide thy fell misogyny? "Nay, let the spirit of the age With all its mystic beauty stand Translucent ever, aye, in spite the rage Of Cossack and of Samarcand! Thou art enough for any soul's desire! Thou hast the beauty of cerulean fire! But we who grovel on the damask earth Are we despoilt of thy exigeant mirth? "Canst listen to a prayer, Sarcophagus? Indeed O art thou there, Sarcophagus? What time the Philistine denies, What time the raucous cynic cries, Avaunt, yet spare! Let this thy motto be, With thy thesaurian verbosity. Nor think that I, a caterpillian worm, Before thy glance should ever honk or squirm. "'Tis but the stern condition of the poor That panting brings me pottering at thy door, To breathe of love and argent charity For thee, for thee, iguanodonic thee!" "That's an excellent specimen of magazine poetry," said Billy Jones. "But I observe, Haarley, that you haven't given it a title. Perhaps if you gave it a title we might get at the mystery of its meaning. A title is a sort of Baedeker to the general run of magazine poems." Haarlem grew rather red of countenance as he answered, "Well, I didn't exactly like to give it the title I dreamed; it didn't seem to shed quite as much light on the subject as a title should."