“Very good, Dodson,” said Mr. Davis, who by now had regained his own natural self-possession, which was not inconsiderable. “Excuse me for one moment. Take a chair. Make yourself quite at home.” “I shall make myself quite at home a good deal sooner than you think, you young swine,” said Mr. Dodson through clenched teeth, as Mr. Davis betook himself to the presence of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. “Jack in office! But your days are numbered, my son, your days are numbered!” The bewildered Mr. G. Eliot Davis returned and handed a copy of Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s translation of the Odyssey to Mr. M. Arnold Dodson. “Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, placing the handsome volume ostentatiously under his arm, “you are a youth of intellectual gifts, but unfortunately, like many others of your type, your gifts don’t take you quite far enough. You will understand a little better what I mean about this time on Monday. Good afternoon, Davis.” “Good afternoon, Dodson. Mind the stairs!” said Mr. Davis, as Mr. Dodson picked his way delicately down them. “What does Octavius mean, I wonder, by giving _him_ an advance copy?” mused Mr. Davis, pale with anger. “He knows what two and two make, does James Dodson. I shouldn’t mind a bit if only he played the game. I wish Octavius was not such a d----d old fool.” With this reflection, which it must be conceded was in somewhat questionable taste, upon the mental attainments and general calibre of his august employer, Mr. G. Eliot Davis put on his hat, and went his virtuous way to that hall of public entertainment, the annexe to the Brontë Hotel, and accepted a cup of tea from the hands of the lady in the heliotrope blouse. “Chrissie,” said Mr. Davis, stirring his tea apprehensively, “that young cad, Jimmy Dodson, cut me out with you, and now he’s trying to cut me out with Octavius.” “Well, Percy,” said the lady in the heliotrope blouse, “if that is so you can go home to mamma. Whatever Jimmy Dodson tries to do he does.” XXII “Luney, my son,” said the mellifluous accents of Mr. M. A. Dodson, ascending upwards to the high stool on which was perched the assiduous form of William Jordan, Junior, “I want you to do me a personal favour. I’ve got here an advance copy of Octavius’s translation of the Odyssey. Now, my good and virtuous boy, I want you to take it home with you to-night, read it carefully, and criticize it for all you are worth. Just make a note, like a good chap, of any particular points that strike you. If any of his truck strikes you as better than the truck of the other johnnies, you had better underline it. Or if you think some of his truck is worse than the truck of the other johnnies, put a bit of blue pencil round it. If you can suggest any improvements, so much the better. I want an expert like yourself to handle this by Monday next, before the reviews come out, see? Do this for me, Luney, old boy, and about the end of next week we’ll do a music-hall together.”