"Poets ought to be ready at any time," remarked Osborne jestingly. "Well, then, Ben, let us have yours." "I rather think I must be excused," answered Benjamin, feigning an unwillingness to read. "No excuse for you," said Osborne. "You have it written, for I saw it in your hand." "That is true," replied Benjamin; "but after such fine productions as we have heard, there is little encouragement for me to read this. I think I must correct it and dress it up a little before I read it." "Not a word of it," said Ralph. "There is no excuse for any one who is prepared." So, after much urging, Benjamin proceeded to read the verses, with seeming diffidence, all listening with rapt attention. "You must read that again," said Osborne, when the first reading was finished; which Benjamin consented to do. "You surprise me, Ben," said Osborne, after the piece was read the second time. "You are a genuine poet. I had no idea that you could write like that." "Nor I," added Watson. "It is better than half the poetry that is printed. If we had not given out the subject, I should have charged you with stealing it." "What do _you_ say, Ralph?" inquired Osborne. "You are a poet, and ought to be a judge of such matters." "I don't think it is entirely faultless," responded Ralph. "You have commended it full as highly as it will bear, in my estimation." "Well done!" exclaimed Osborne. "Your opinion of that piece proves that you are destitute of poetical taste, as I have told you before." Ralph and Benjamin saw that Osborne was fairly caught, and they hardly dared to exchange glances, lest they should betray themselves. They succeeded, however, in controlling themselves, and allowed Osborne to express himself most emphatically. Ralph walked home with Osborne, and their conversation was upon Benjamin's poetry. "Who would have imagined," said Osborne, "that Franklin was capable of such a performance,--such painting, such force, such fire! In common conversation he seems to have no choice of words; he hesitates and blunders; and yet, how he writes!" "Possibly he may not have written it," suggested Ralph. "That is the 'unkindest cut of all,'" retorted Osborne, "to charge him of plagiarism. Franklin would not descend to so mean a thing." They parted for that night; but Ralph embraced the first opportunity to call on Benjamin, and have a sort of rejoicing over the success of their enterprise. They laughed to their hearts' content, and discussed the point of revealing the secret. They agreed that the real author of the article should be known at their next meeting.