As the unhappy Dodson entered this evening the presence of the poet, he seemed to discern a curious anguish in the eyes of his dying friend. “Jimmy,” said the poet in a scarcely audible voice, “the hand of death is upon me. There hardly remains more than a day and a night of the sands of life. Yet I would like to hear that my labours have received some sort of sanction. Have they made no sign? Have they said nothing?” The entreaty in the sightless gaze filled the unhappy Dodson with a kind of reckless despair. “Have they said nothing?” he said in choking accents, yet his strange cockney speech sounded like music, so intense was the emotion with which it vibrated. “Have they made no sign, old boy? Why--why, you can’t believe what a sensation your poem is making! They are printing a second edition, and it will run to--to a hundred thousand copies. The--the first was--was over ten thousand, you know, and that has already been over subscribed. The papers are full of it--greatest thing ever done--better than Homer, better than Shakespeare and so on, although, of course, old boy, they put it more literary. I wish you could see the face of Octavius. He is the proudest man in London because Crumpett and Hawker happen to have had the luck to publish it. But Octavius deserves credit, doesn’t he, old boy, because from the first he saw its merits? He says poetry is going to be fashionable. Duchesses in fur coats drive up in their motors to inquire the name of the author, and when Octavius says he can’t tell ’em because he don’t know, they get--well, they get _ratty_! I believe Octavius would give his ears to know the name of the author. He has offered to double my screw if I will tell him. And every paper in London pesters us to death for your photograph and a few details concerning your life.” “And--and the persons in the street, do you think they read with knowledge?” “I am sure they do. As I went round the corner to get my lunch to-day I saw two chaps with copies of it under their arms.” “And--and in what manner do they express themselves concerning it? Do you suppose they understand? Do you suppose these poor purblind ones accept the ampler interpretation of human destiny?” “Of course they do, old boy--that is as well as they can. I don’t know much about literature myself, but some of the reviews that are coming out in the highest quarters are enough to make you dizzy. They--they say this--this poem of yours, old boy, is going--is going to rev-revolutionize thought and--and philosophy and--and everything else.” “My friend,” said the dying man softly, “I would have you bring me the words of one among these poor street-persons; and the aged man, my father, shall read them to me; and then--and then I shall ask no more.” The face of Dodson was the colour of snow. His eyes were full of despair.