"No wonder you're in debt. Will a sovereign get you out of it?"
"No; it wouldn't be the least use to me."
"Here it is, then."
Denzil took the coin and his hat.
"Aren't you going to earn it, you beggar? Sit down and write something
for me."
Denzil got pen and paper, and took his place.
"What do you want me to write?"
"Your Epic Poem."
Denzil started and flushed. But he set to work. Grodman leaned back in
his arm-chair and laughed, studying the poet's grave face.
Denzil wrote three lines and paused.
"Can't remember any more? Well, read me the start."