“Yes, yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson faintly, “of course I will not divulge the name of the author. But suppose Crumpett and Hawker--suppose, old boy, Crumpett and Hawker take it into their heads--take it into their fat heads--you never know what publishers will do, old boy, do you?--suppose they take it into their fat heads to refuse your novel, or your poem, or your treatise, or whatever you call it?” The poet smiled. “Courage, faithful one,” he said. “You have yet to read this little treatise, have you not? You have yet to learn the infinite power of this right hand. And those worthy street-persons, Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker, will not their eyes glow with a proud joy when they learn it also?” Jimmy Dodson did not dare to look upon the rapt gaze of the sightless poet. “Ye-es, old boy,” he said miserably, “ye-es, old boy, I suppose they will.” “Their eyes will dazzle,” said the poet, “when they behold that which has been wrought for them and theirs, and for ages unborn. A man-child has been wrought out of the soul of Man. Once more the cycle has completed itself. Fact and Speculation, Reason and Imagination stand together in a more intimate relation. In all humility I say to you, dear friend, a new dignity has been given to human nature.” With an ineffable gesture the poet gave the first pages of his poem into the hands of his friend. “I--I really, old boy,” stammered Jimmy Dodson, “I--I am nothing like good enough scholar to have an opinion about it.” A divine self-security overspread the gaunt features of the poet. “It is its merit,” he said, “that it is not food only for the proud. It is wrought in the simple English speech that is the birthright of the humblest of our countrymen. It is not wrought for him who sits only in his little room; it is wrought for all those dear and sweet people who throng the pavements of the great city. Earth, my mother, issued her mandate; I obeyed it; many days I sojourned in the soft brown bosom of the mighty one; I communed with her children; I walked with all the fair things she had wrought from her own bowels; and in her good pleasure she touched my lips with speech, and she gave the strength to my right hand. All who are simple and gentle of heart will take sustenance from this little treatise upon human life. Scan the first lines, faithful one, you who are simple and gentle of heart, and then the pressure of your hand shall tell me that my labours are not vain.” With indescribable pangs, Jimmy Dodson deferred to the insistence of the glazed eyes, which, although as lifeless as those of a statue, seemed to possess the power to hold him in thrall.