“Oh that’s not poetry ‘t all. It’s some rot I wrote last night before I went to bed and it was too much bother to hunt for rhymes; so I made it a sort of a blank verse instead.” Here is Charlie’s “blank verse”: “We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were low. _Will you never let us go?_ We ate bread and onions when you took towns or ran aboard quickly when you were beaten back by the foe. The captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather singing songs, but we were below. We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that we were idle for we still swung to and fro. _Will you never let us go?_ The salt made the oar handles like sharkskin; our knees were cut to the bone with salt cracks; our hair was stuck to our foreheads; and our lips were cut to our gums and you whipped us because we could not row. _Will you never let us go?_ But in a little time we shall run out of the portholes as the water runs along the oarblade, and though you tell the others to row after us you will never catch us till you catch the oar-thresh and tie up the winds in the belly of the sail. Aho! _Will you never let us go?_” “H’m. What’s oar-thresh, Charlie?” “The water washed up by the oars. That’s the sort of song they might sing in the galley, y’know. Aren’t you ever going to finish that story and give me some of the profits?” “It depends on yourself. If you had only told me more about your hero in the first instance it might have been finished by now. You’re so hazy in your notions.” “I only want to give you the general notion of it--the knocking about from place to place and the fighting and all that. Can’t you fill in the rest yourself? Make the hero save a girl on a pirate-galley and marry her or do something.” “You’re a really helpful collaborator. I suppose the hero went through some few adventures before he married.” “Well then, make him a very artful card--a low sort of man--a sort of political man who went about making treaties and breaking them--a black-haired chap who hid behind the mast when the fighting began.” “But you said the other day that he was red-haired.” “I couldn’t have. Make him black-haired of course. You’ve no imagination.” Seeing that I had just discovered the entire principles upon which the half-memory falsely called imagination is based, I felt entitled to laugh, but forbore, for the sake of the tale. “You’re right. _You’re_ the man with imagination. A black-haired chap in a decked ship,” I said. “No, an open ship--like a big boat.” This was maddening. “Your ship has been built and designed, closed and decked in; you said so yourself,” I protested. “No, no, not that ship. That was open, or half decked because----. By Jove you’re right. You made me think of the hero as a red-haired chap. Of course if he were red, the ship would be an open one with painted sails.”