"My dear sir, the rock of Gibraltar is no solider and no more permanent," said the Idiot. "For as long as there is a Four Hundred in existence, human nature is such that there will also be a million who will want to get into it." "At such a cost?" demanded the Bibliomaniac. "At any cost," replied the Idiot. "Even people who know they cannot swim want to get in it." XII HE MAKES A SUGGESTION TO THE POET "Good-morning, Homer, my boy," said the Idiot, genially, as the Poet entered the breakfast-room. "All hail to thee. Thou art the bright particular bird of plumage I most hoped to see this rare and beauteous summer morning. No sweet-singing robin-redbreast or soft-honking canvasback for yours truly this A.M., when a living, breathing, palpitating son of the Muses lurks near at hand. I fain would make thee a proposition, Shakespeare dear!" "Back pedal there! Avaunt with your flowery speech, oh Idiot!" cried the Doctor. "Else will I call an ambulance." "No ambulance for mine," chortled the Idiot. "Nay, Sweet Gas-bags," quoth the Doctor. "But for once I fear me we may be scorched by this Pelée of words that thou spoutest forth." "What's the proposition, Mr. Idiot?" asked the Poet. "I'm always open to anything of the kind, as the Subway said when an automobile fell into it.'" "I thirst for laurels," said the Idiot, "and I propose that you and I collaborate on a book of poems for early publication. With your name on the title-page and my poems in the book I think we can make a go of it." "What's the lay?" asked the Poet, amused, but wary. "Sonnets, or French forms, or just plain snatches of song?" "Any old thing as long as it runs smoothly," replied the Idiot. "Only the poems must fit the title of the book, which is to be _Now_." "_Now?_" said the Poet. "_Now!_" repeated the Idiot. "I find in reading over the verse of the day that the 'Now' poem always finds a ready market. Therefore, there must be money in it, and where the money goes there the laurels are. You know what Browning Robinson, the Laureate of Wall Street, wrote in his 'Message to Posterity': "'Oh, when you come to crown my brow, Bring me no bay nor sorrel; Give me no parsley wreath, but just The legal long green laurel.'" "I never heard that poem before," laughed the Poet, "though the sentiment in these commercial days is not unfamiliar." "True," said the Idiot. "Alfred Austin Biggs, of Texas, voiced the same idea when he said: "'Crown me not with spinach, Wreathe me not with hay; Place no salad on my head When you bring the bay. Give me not the water-cresses To adorn my flowing tresses, But at e'en Crown my pockets good and strong With the green-- The green that's long.'" "Do you remember that?" asked the Idiot. "Only faintly," said the Poet. "I think you read it to me once before, just after you--er--ah--rather just after Alfred Austin Biggs, of Texas--wrote it."