“When I am away from that place I know the poor chap is hopelessly mad,” Jimmy Dodson would say to himself in his unhappy self-communion; “and I know his old father is hopelessly mad as well; it is proved by the judgment of others; yet as soon as I enter that accursed little room behind that accursed little shop they both seem to have such marvellous sanity that they make me ashamed of my own.” From the time his friend’s poem was given to the world Jimmy Dodson spent his days hoping against hope. In the face of such emphatic denial of the merits of the work it called for great courage to venture to believe that after all it might vindicate itself. Yet day after day he scanned the columns of the newspapers in the vain search for a vindication that he might carry to the dying man. Nor was he able to elicit any favourable tidings from the firm of Crumpett and Hawker. Their interest in the work terminated with its issue to the press. They had not engaged to advertise it, nor to canvass for its sale among their clients the booksellers. Therefore, at the end of the first month of its issue not only had it been passed over in silence by the newspapers, but also not a single copy had been sold to the public. In the face of these cold facts Dodson had scarcely the courage to approach his dying friend, yet an irresistible power seemed to draw him to his presence. It pierced his heart to observe the ludicrous, pathetic, overweening faith of the dying poet in that which he had given to the world. As he grew weaker and weaker in body, this sense of achievement seemed to mount to greater heights in his veins, so that the unhappy Dodson felt that he had no alternative but to continue to enact the amazing role he had already played so many times. One evening he said to the white-haired man who welcomed him into the shop, “I suppose we must keep it up till the end comes, but God knows it is wearing me out. I have lost a stone in weight; I can’t eat my meals; I can’t sleep at night. Old man, this business is killing James Dodson by inches; but I suppose he must keep it up to the bitter end.” “Yes,” said the old man faintly, “the truth must be concealed from the dying Achilles that the great world out of doors has rejected his labours. Yet it is meet that we ourselves should continue in our homage to this mighty one, for we do but anticipate the verdict of ages unborn.” “Verdict of ages unborn!” said Dodson, with contempt and bitterness, for his own dire suffering appeared to be overcoming his resolve; “there will be no verdict of ages unborn if we go on at this rate. Not a single copy has been sold up to date. If I could only scrape together the money, which I can’t, I would insert a full-page advertisement in the _Times_. I see the _Journal of Literature_ has acknowledged it among the books received, but they take care not to give a bit of recognition to the author. They must have found out that he’s a long while a-dying.”