"I have done it, Smiles. In the words of the old-time classical geometer, I have found it; and as he remarked on another occasion (I believe subsequently), 'Give me where to stand, and I will move the Universe.' His precise words, if I recall the original Greek, were _Dos Pou Sto_--and the critical ear will detect a manly--er--self-reliance in the terse monosyllables. In these days," pursued Mr. Mortimer, setting down the market-basket, unbuttoning his furred overcoat, extracting a green and yellow bandanna from his breastpocket and mopping his heated brow, "in these days we have lost that self-confidence. We are weary, disillusioned. We have ceased to expect gold at the rainbow's foot. Speaking without disrespect to the poet Shelley"--here he lifted his hat and replaced it--"a new Peneus does _not_ roll his fountains against the morning star, whatever that precise--er--operation may have been. But let us honour the aspiration, Smiles, though the chill monitor within forbid us to endorse it. 'A loftier Argo'"--Mr. Mortimer indicated the _Success to Commerce_ with a sweep of the hand-- "A loftier Argo cleaves the main Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus--you'll excuse the comparison--sings again, And loves, and weeps--and dies." "Stanislas, you have not forgotten the eggs, I hope?" interposed the voice of Mrs. Mortimer from the cabin. "I have not, my bud. Moreover, as I was just explaining to our friend, I have secured a _Pou Sto_--a hall, my chick--or perhaps it might be defined more precisely as a--er--loft. It served formerly--or, as the poets would say, whilom--as a barracks for the Salvation Army; in more recent times as a store for--er--superphosphates. But it is commodious, and possesses a side-chamber which will serve us admirably for a green-room when the proprietor--an affable person by the name of Tench-- has removed the onions at present drying on the floor; which he has engaged to do." "Are you tellin' me," inquired Sam, "that you've been and 'ired the room?"