“Well, all I can say is,” he said, breaking out with a violence which was so unexpected that it somewhat alarmed the courteous and self-possessed Mr. Tovey, “I don’t care what you’ve done or what you haven’t done; I don’t care what you think or what you don’t think, you’ve got there the manuscript of the greatest poem ever written--ab-so-lute-ly the greatest ever written, mark you--and you’ve got to have it whether you want it or not. Mind you, I know nothing about poetry myself--never cared for it--never had time to read it--but whether you believe it, or whether you don’t, I know I am speaking the truth. I promised the poor chap who wrote this poem--he has been blind for weeks and he is dying by inches--that I would carry his manuscript to the English Museum--and here it is. And now you’ve got it you had better take care of it--and just see that you do. Good-morning.” Before the astonished Mr. Tovey could interpose a word of expostulation and remonstrance, this somewhat ill-favoured and rather vulgar person who had waxed so vehement all at once had passed from his ken; and he descended the stairs and passed out of the doors of the building with a violence of demeanour which not only scandalized the austere custodians of its portals, but caused them to reprove him as he went by. Mr. Tovey, when at last his very natural and proper astonishment had permitted him to realize that this vulgarian had gone away, and further, that his trimly kept domain had been encumbered with a piece of brown paper and string and a thousand or so pages of foolscap all smudged and dishevelled by contact with the printers, he rang his bell. The summons was heeded by a young middle-aged gentleman who in years might have been five-and-twenty, but who in manner, demeanour and cultivated deference to all the things that were, foremost of whom was Mr. Tovey himself, was of no particular period of life. “Mr. Toplady,” said Mr. Tovey, with a well-bred concealment of what his feelings had recently undergone, “I shall be grateful if you will ask Mr. Bessy to ask Mr. Fairservice to ask Mr. MacFayden to ask Perry to ask one of the porters to remove this parcel.” Mr. Toplady bowed, thanked Mr. Tovey and withdrew delicately. In a little while there came a knock on the door of Mr. Tovey’s domain, and in response to that gentleman’s invitation, a stalwart son of labour, six feet six inches high and broad in proportion, clad in a bright brown uniform with a liberal display of gold braid, entered the room, and removed the brown paper, the string, and also the manuscript in a remarkably efficient, solemn, and dignified manner. A quarter of an hour after his feat had been performed with such admirable success, this same impressive gold-braided figure knocked again on Mr. Tovey’s door and entered his domain. “Beg pardon, sir,” said the stalwart, “but what is us to do with that there parcel?”