Devlin opened a long friendship with the youth by subtlety, shaving deftly the while over somewhat smooth ground: “You’re in literatoor, sorr, I’ll be thinkin’?” said he. “H’m, h’m!” grunted the youth; and added dryly: “More or less.” He winked to Gomme, feeling the joke was with him--and the alert Devlin, catching the wink, saw that the boy was at ease. The first shave, Devlin was wont to say, was as distressing to one’s egoism as the marriage service to a maiden’s modesty. “It won’t be po’try, will it, sorr?” asked Devlin. Noll shook his head: “No,” said he. Mike Devlin smiled: “I’m thinkin’ it’s not aisy to put poets under Mike Devlin’s hands without me knowing the feel of them. I can just smell them. Be Joshua, I shaved one every mornin’, when it wasn’t afternoon, for eight months on this very floor, and I got used to the feel of them.... Ah, that was a great poet, mind ye. Eh? I’ve clean forgot his name, but he was a great hairy man wid a head on him like a dam besom--ye could have swept Fleet Street wid him.... When that man walked down the street the whole town looked at him and said That’s a blarsted poet!... Begod, yes, that was a great poet. When he’d got the frenzy on him he hadn’t the time to clean himself. Eh, sir? What did he write? Why, just po’try. His shoulders was stooped with the application of him--begod, the very trousers on him betrayed the genius in him; they had knees on them like a horse that’s endin’ his days in the cab traffic. Oh, yes; ye could see the great man just fretted the pantaloons off himself wid worryin’ at the rhymes.... Po’try’s an oneasy means of livelihood, I’m thinkin’.... And, in fact, I had a slap at it meself.... I tried to pull off one of these pastorals, they call it, wid the cattle goin’ down to the drink and the great dirty blacksmith leanin’ on the anvil, takin’ a spit at his hands and makin’ the sparks fly, and the blacksmith’s daughter wid the beauty of old Trotter’s yellow-haired barmaid on her; but the divil a rhyme could I get to the blacksmith’s daughter but “fills her leathern sides wid water.” Well, in comes the poet one morning and asks me if I’ve made me will; but I told him my paleness was due to the po’try, and that it made life too oneasy and I was going to shake it off me heels. What’s the matter wid po’try? says he. Wid that I discovered me tribulation to him, and he mighty nearly got the whooping-cough--he told me I had better put aside the seductions of the Muse, I was sufferin’ from the echoes of old refrains. But it didn’t cost me a night’s sleep, thank God. Ye know, after all, sir, po’try’s like the hair-cuttin’--ye’ve got to be born to it, or ye’ve got to lave it severely alone.... Eh, sir? Ah, yes--be the gospels, he was a great poet--ye could smell the midnight oil on him. He just lived at the desk, gettin’ the rhymes into collusion. Genius? he was full of it. Free love was nothin’ to that man. Aisy, sorr, or