“His name is to be kept a secret,” said the bearer of the parcel. “He doesn’t want it to be known.” “I assume that his poems have been published?” said Mr. Tovey. “Not yet,” said the bearer of the parcel; “but,” he added, with an air of weight that was not without its effect, “they are going to be published by Crumpett and Hawker on the twelfth of January.” “Curious, curious,” said Mr. Tovey. However, the announcement itself seemed in some measure to reassure this very courteous black-coated gentleman, since he requested the bearer of the parcel to untie the string that he might take a glance at the manuscript. This the young man proceeded to do; and it must be said that for one whose proud boast had once been that his self-possession was invincible, his heart began to beat with a preposterous violence, as soon as Mr. Tovey came to examine the contents of the parcel. Jimmy Dodson narrowly scrutinized Mr. Tovey’s impassive countenance as he ran his fingers through the pages of the manuscript, all stained and defaced by contact with compositors’ pencils and with printers’ thumbs. “Rather incoherent, is it not?” said Mr. Tovey mildly, as he turned the pages over. “Is it not somewhat pagan in tone--that is, as far as there is a tone--there does not appear to be any very definite conception of Deity--and rather incoherent--rather incoherent. I am afraid this will never do.” The last by now familiar phrase seemed to pierce the heart and brain of James Dodson. “I--I suppose, sir,” he said with scared eyes, “you occupying a responsible position in the English Museum, you would be rather a judge of poetry?” “I am not accustomed to make such a claim on my own behalf,” said Mr. Tovey, in whose well-regulated bosom a sympathetic chord seemed to have been touched, for at least he seemed to unbend a little and he seemed to do it very nicely, “but perhaps I am entitled to say that the Oxbridge Press paid me the compliment of inviting me to edit their Chaucer, their Spenser, their Keats, their Felicia Hemans, and their James Russell Lowell. And I have also competed for the Newdigate Prize.” Jimmy Dodson strangled a groan. He clenched his hands in desperation.