At eight o’clock in the evening of the same day when Jimmy Dodson made
his nightly pilgrimage to the little room, he was greeted eagerly by
him who kept the chimney-side.
“Our little treatise is in worthy hands at the English Museum?” he
said. “But, good friend, I am so persuaded of it that I do not ask you
to answer.”
“I do answer all the same, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson with a fervour
which was born of careful preparation. “I took it to the chief, the
head man, the curator or whatever they call him--you see, old boy, I
thought if I left it to an understrapper it might get mislaid.”
“It might, it might,” said the poet with a smile of approval. “This
little world of ours is so strange in its ways.”
“And what is more,” said Jimmy Dodson, “I told him what it was. I told
him it was absolutely the greatest poem in the world.”
“That was doubtless wise,” said the poet with his curious simplicity.
“Yet, what do you think, old boy?” said Jimmy Dodson with indignation.
“He as good as said he didn’t believe it. He as good as called me a
liar.”
“Ah,” said the poet, breathing deep. “And then--and then, in what
manner did you answer him?”
“Why, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson proudly, “I did precisely what you
would have done yourself. I whipped the string off the parcel; I handed
him the first page of the manuscript, and I said, ‘There it is; now
look at it for yourself!’”
“Oh good, oh brave!” cried he who was sightless. “And--and----?”
As his lips shaped the question, the breath of the dying poet came in
great heavy gasps. The face of the unhappy Dodson was set like a piece
of marble, but there was a curious intensity burning in his eyes.
“And--and? Why, what do _you_ think, old boy?” said the faithful
emissary, and he paused dramatically.
“He was silent,” said the poet. “He did not speak.”
“No, old boy, that is just where you are wrong,” said Jimmy Dodson with
an air of triumph. “He spoke right enough. You see, that chap couldn’t
help himself. At first I felt sure he would go clean out of his mind.
‘My God,’ he said, ‘tell me who is the author of this?’ ‘No,’ said I,
‘the authorship is to remain a dead secret.’ ‘_You_ are not the author
at any rate,’ he said, ‘a common, vulgar little chap like you.’ ‘No,’ I
said, ‘and it is no use pretending that I am; but all the same I have
promised the author that I would keep his secret; and what is more I
am going to keep it.’ ‘I shall see the publishers,’ he said. ‘The world
has a right to know who is the author of this.’ ‘By all means see them
if you like,’ I said, ‘but you will be none the wiser. They don’t know
any more than you do.’ Well, after that the poor old fellow--highly
respectable, too--University man, and so on--behaved as though he was
fairly up the pole. He swore he would know the author; he swore he
wouldn’t let me go out of that room until I had told him your name. You
see, that chap was simply mad keen on poetry; he had edited Chaucer and
Keats and those chaps for the Oxbridge Press. But no, I stood firm;
and when I left him, he said, ‘Well, sir, even if you won’t tell me
the name of the author, I may tell you that this priceless manuscript
will be placed among those we have of Shakespeare and Milton, for’--and
these are his very words, Luney, old boy--‘for,’ said he, ‘this
brown-paper parcel is a national possession.’”
When Jimmy Dodson had concluded his account of this remarkable scene at
the English Museum, and he ventured to look at the blind poet through
the tears that rendered his own eyes so dim, he was overcome by horror.
The sightless eyes of the poet were closed; his head was thrown back
in the chair; his breathing could no longer be heard. The illusion
of death was so complete that for an instant Dodson felt that he had
entered its presence, and that by his own too-faithful hand he had
slain his friend.
However, almost immediately the poet uttered a sigh. He then raised
his head, and opened his sightless eyes again. “Courage, Achilles!” he
could be heard to mutter faintly.
An hour of silence passed ere the voice of the poet was heard again. He
then addressed his unhappy friend in the manner that became the true
prince.
“Jimmy,” he said, “the world will never know what it owes to one strong
and faithful soul.”
Yet again the dying poet held forth his hand, which yet again received
the homage of his unhappy friend.